


The "Step" Stands for "Stepping Stone"

by skimmingthesurface



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A music teacher new to small town living, a divorcee new to raising her child as a single parent, and that same child who isn't really ready for his life to be changing this fast. He didn't ask for any of this. And he certainly never wanted to be used as a stepping stone for someone else's life.</p><p>A pre-OTGW fic focusing on the developing relationship between Wirt, his mom, and his step-dad. Alternatively, "When Jonathan Met Amy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jonathan Whelan - September

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is just a little fic (I say little, but it really isn't) chronicling how I envisioned Jonathan (my headcanon for Wirt's step-dad) meeting and getting to know Wirt and his mom, Amelia Palmer, in the wake of her divorce. I'm not sure how long it's going to be, ten is just an estimate really, though I'm pretty sure I'm only going to cover up until a few months into Amy's pregnancy with Greg. 
> 
> This fic isn't going to have a regular update schedule, new chapters will pop up when I'm able to get around to them. I've got the first three done and I've had them sitting around for a while, so I decided to get this up and running now. Hope you all enjoy this little insight into the development of the Palmer-Whelan family! 
> 
> I'll also be posting a couple of future fic, one-shots over the next few days, so keep on the lookout for those as well!

Lakeville, Massachusetts sounded like just the kind of small town where neighbors baked each other pies and the highlight of the year was the annual Fourth of July picnic and barbeque in the park. Whether or not it actually was that kind of small town, Jonathan Whelan had to yet to determine, as unfortunately he’d missed whatever shenanigans the town got up to in July. He’d only just finished settling into the one bedroom, one bathroom bungalow he was renting on Main Street a week before school started.

It was certainly a change from city life, he could tell that much the second he realized there wasn’t anything taller than two stories for about twenty miles in every direction. Having grown up in Worcester and then attending college in Boston definitely left its mark on him, not that he wasn’t excited for this pilgrimage of his. Jonathan was pretty sure every synonym for excited applied to him as he rolled into the little town of Lakeville.

He’d just bought his first lawn mower for starters, because he actually had grass in the backyard instead of a narrow concrete patio. He spent the weekend trying to figure out how it worked and how frequently he should fertilize the grass and what an edger was used for. By Sunday afternoon, his pants and palms were stained green, and even his sneakers suffered some mild stains. But he had a clean-cut lawn and a potted plant sitting on the porch. All in all, it was a weekend well-spent in Lakeville.

Sure, when he’d been studying to become a music teacher he might have had dreams of teaching at a charter school in Boston or maybe a school with a performing arts magnet, but who was he to turn down a job at a school that was eager to amp up their more or less nonexistent music program? Certainly not Jonathan Whelan.

Well, actually the reason the job even became available in the first place was because the previous music teacher passed away that summer after teaching at Lakeville Elementary for over fifty years (and after living a long and fruitful life, he’d been assured), but the principal and school board seemed interested in seeing what he could do to make music a more involved part of the students’ curriculum and he had a ton of ideas just waiting to burst out of him. It was an excellent opportunity, in a way. Without much of a defined music program to begin with, it left Jon room to stretch his imagination and structure things to his liking. Within reason and budget, of course.

He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the school could afford to offer instrument rentals to the fourth and fifth grade classes, but after some careful consideration, he decided to dip into his own savings – and take out a loan – to scrounge up some for the third grade class as well. He had a plan, and that plan involved giving third graders instruments.

As for Kindergarten, first, and second grade, well, he had big plans for them, too. After all, the voice was just as much of an instrument, and he had yet to meet a group of kids under the age of seven who did not enjoy singing classics such as “Puff the Magic Dragon” or The Sound of Music’s “Do-Re-Mi.”

The P.E. teacher, Ross Denham, laughed out loud when he shared his plan in the teacher’s lounge, and the man wished him luck with amused tears in his eyes. “I gave up on plans with these kids after my first week with them. Now we pretty much cycle through dodgeball, kickball, and capture the flag every week.”

“I like capture the flag,” Jon had offered with a hesitant smile and received another hearty laugh and a pat to the shoulder.

For his first year of teaching he ended up with a pretty manageable schedule. He didn’t have to be at the school until ten-thirty in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the morning Kindergarten music classes, then he met with First Grade A at eleven and First Grade B at eleven-thirty on Tuesdays, while Thursdays it was Second Grade A and Second Grade B. Then after lunch came the afternoon Kindergarten classes at one.

On Wednesdays and Fridays he met with everyone else for hour-long instruction instead of the short half-hour segments that the younger grades got. Third and fourth grade were on Wednesday afternoons and fifth grade was on Friday afternoons. For now he had Mondays off, and he really couldn’t complain about that. But the very best part, in his opinion, was his after-school elective band practice.

It was one of the most exciting things he was bringing to Lakeville Elementary. Twice a week third, fourth, and fifth graders could gather after school and he’d essentially conduct what he considered to be more “advanced” lessons. Really, it was just about being a fun time for the kids who enjoyed learning new things about their instruments of choice.

Two weeks in, Jonathan was proud to say that his plan was still very much in effect (and made sure to tell Ross Denham just that) and he’d received three pies from three different neighbors and successfully mowed the front and backyard twice. He was pretty sure he was going to like it in Lakeville.

-0-

As he ventured into the third week, Jonathan was starting put names to faces. With the older kids it was a bit easier since he saw them for longer periods of time, not to mention that associating them with their instruments of choice helped a great deal with that, but the younger kids tended to be more of a hyperactive blur than anything. Especially when they would rather run around outside than learn to read music, but he couldn’t really begrudge them that.

“Hey, hey,” he called out to his second group of second graders, taping his conductor’s baton on his desk to gather all of their attentions at once. “One, two, three, eyes on…” Jonathan trailed off as they blinked up at him, waving his hand to encourage someone to finish his sentence.

“Me!” A little girl with two blonde pigtails and two missing front teeth raised her hand and grinned.

“And bingo was his name-o!” Jonathan pointed his baton at her, casually checking his roster over his shoulder. “Or in this case, Kathleen. Yes, today we are all going to have our eyes on me. Or rather…” He turned to the whiteboard and hastily scribbled the letters M and I. “Mi.”

“Mr. Whelan! That’s not how you spell ‘me!’” A little boy called out.

“It is if you’re Spanish!” a little girl protested. “Are you Spanish, Mr. Whelan?”

He chuckled. “No, Carol, I’m afraid I’m not. But I know enough of it to say that you’re absolutely right. This is how you spell ‘mi’ in Spanish.” He pointed to the word on the board with the marker. “Unfortunately, I’m a music teacher, not a Spanish teacher, so we’re going to be learning about a different kind of ‘mi.’ Does anyone know what mi might have to do with music?”

Squirming in their chairs, the group of second graders just looked at one another and shook their heads or shrugged. All except two. One of the boys Jonathan quickly recognized as Jason Funderberker, but the other one… well, he was pretty sure he’d never once heard the other child speak. He was actually pretty well hidden, sitting in the back row of seats and slumped just enough that if Kathleen in front of him wasn’t wiggling about so much, Jon wouldn’t have seen him.

His brown hair was messy and he looked rather disheveled in his over-sized sweater and too-short jeans, quite the opposite of the primly, put-together Jason Funderberker. He wouldn’t make eye contact with him. His eyes were focused on the white board, drinking in the two letters with a rather solemn stare. His head was nodding, just slightly, but he didn’t raise his hand.

Jon kept that in mind as he called on Jason instead. “It’s part of the solfege,” the boy answered. “It’s the third note.”

“Very good. Yes, mi is the third note in a typical scale.” Jonathan made two places in front of ‘mi’ for two more syllables, then four after it. “Can you tell me what the other six notes are?”

“Do, re, then mi, fa, so or sol, la, and ti,” Jason replied with a pleased smile.

“You are on a roll today, Jason, I must say,” Jon told him as he wrote down the rest of the scale, then addressed the rest of the class. “Is this starting to look familiar to anyone?”

“Yes, Mr. Whelan,” the second graders chorused together, almost like zombie children. He loved teaching kids, they were fantastic.

Though, he couldn’t help but notice that the little boy in the back didn’t join them, and was actually scowling a little, as if he was disappointed. For a moment, he glanced at Jason, then returned to staring at his shoes. Jon kept that in mind as well, changing markers to bring a new color into the mix.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say all these words are gibberish, wouldn’t you?” He narrowed his gaze as the children giggled. “I mean, what could these silly little words possibly mean and what do they have to do with music? Well, this right here,” he pointed to ‘do’ then wrote underneath it, “is our C note. Remember when we found the C note on my keyboard last week? Well, since it would be kind of hard to carry a keyboard around with you everywhere you go, this is sort of a way to be able to find C by singing. Let’s sing a little bit of it together. Do, re, mi…” he started, then gestured for the children to repeat it.  


“Do, re, mi,” they all sang back at almost the right notes.

“Singing ‘do, re, mi’ is just like singing the C, D, and E notes that we found on the keyboard.” He told them with a grin while they blinked curiously at him.

In the small blip of silence that was so rare in elementary school classes, he heard a small murmur of something. It came from the back of the room. Jonathan met the boy’s gaze and watched as his cheeks reddened – all the way up to his large ears – while he immediately dropped his stare to his shoes once more.

Jon smiled encouragingly, even if the boy wasn’t looking. “What was that?”

The boy fidgeted in his seat and refused to look up, but he did answer him after a moment. “I said… um… I said that’s only when- only when do is fixed. Sometimes… sometimes it’s movable and then do can be anything.”

All the kids turned their heads to look at him while Jon could only blink. Hesitantly, the boy lifted his head, only to have all the color wash right out of his face as he stared with wide eyes at his classmates. He started to babble out an apology of sorts, but Jonathan shook his head and tapped his marker on his desk in lieu of his baton to get the children to turn around.

“No, no, there’s absolutely no need to apologize…”

He scanned the roster and seating chart, brow furrowing a little when his gaze landed on “Wirt Palmer.” He’d have to wonder what kind of parent would name their poor kid something like Wirt at a later time, instead focusing on calming the boy down quickly.

“…Wirt.” He offered the boy a smile, but he didn’t seem to take much comfort in it. “Don’t be sorry. You’re absolutely right, Wirt. There are two different types of solfege, one that uses fixed do, which is what I’m showing you all now, and one that uses movable do, where the notes on the scale can move around and fit in different places based on the kind of scale you want. To keep it simple, we’re just going to be looking at fixed do for now, but thank you for bringing it to our attention, Wirt. It’s a very important thing to keep in mind.” Jonathan tapped his temple as he nodded seriously to the class.

Taking the children’s eyes off of him – as well as his own, apparently – seemed to do the trick and Wirt Palmer relaxed into his seat once again. He didn’t speak up again for the rest of the lesson and when their teacher came to collect them, he was one of the first ones to scurry out of the music room. While wiping off the whiteboard, he frowned a little as he realized he might have just averted his first crisis. He’d encountered shy children before, even this young, but he was pretty sure what happened just then wasn’t a case of simple shyness. The way the boy had paled so quickly, he’d worried that he might actually pass out right there in the middle of class. No wonder he didn’t raise his hand on his own, despite the fact that he knew the answer to his question. Knew a lot more than he thought a seven-year-old would know about music theory. He certainly hadn’t anticipated being lectured on the distinction between fixed and movable do with his second grade students. Or any of his students, actually.

Well, perhaps Wirt had parents who were interested in music, or maybe he was himself. Jon’s theory was proven the following week, when the second grade class filed in that Thursday afternoon for a lesson on reading music and Wirt filled out his worksheet in less than five minutes, each note completely correct.

“Do you play any instruments, Wirt?” Jonathan asked him before the boy made a mad dash back to his seat.

He stared at the floor, scuffing the toe of his shoe against it. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Jon had asked all of his classes on their first day with him if they played anything, and he remembered quite vividly that in the Second Grade B class only Jason Funderberker admitted to having any experience with a musical instrument.

Still, he didn’t remind the boy of this and just sat back in his seat. “What do you play?” he asked him, careful to keep his tone light and soft, like he would if he was talking to skittish rabbit or a bird.

Wirt certainly reminded him of either. He pursed his lips, considering his response, then shook his head. Jon nodded slowly, careful to keep his body language open and receptive.

“Is it a secret?” he asked, hushing his tone a little.

Wirt made a face, eyebrows bunched up, as he shook his head again. “No,” he answered verbally.

“Well, if it’s not a secret, why don’t you want to tell me? Maybe I play it, too. I play all sorts of instruments.” He tilted his head as Wirt broke their eye contact again, the boy remaining silent on the issue. “What if I can guess what it is? Will you let me know if I’m right?”

Wirt’s head snapped up, frown in place. “You know all the instruments. You’ll just keep guessing until you say the right one,” he accused.

He hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he considered that. “Alright. What if I only made five guesses? I bet I can guess what instrument you play in five guesses.”

“Five?” Wirt glanced at his fingers, then wrung his hands together in a sort of nervous gesture. “Only five guesses and if you’re wrong on all of them I don’t have to tell you?”

Jonathan held his hand up, palm facing out while his other hand went over his heart. “Only five guesses and if I’m wrong on all of them, then you don’t have to tell me.”

Satisfied with this response, Wirt nodded. “Okay. Guess.”

Jonathan pretended to crack his knuckles, then his neck, putting on a show for his student to try and ease the kid into the game. “Alright. Let’s see… I bet you play… Bagpipes. You look like a bagpipes kinda guy!”

Starting off with what he found most kids to consider to be one of the silliest instruments paid off. Jonathan grinned as Wirt’s lips quirked up in amusement, probably at the mental image of himself with a set of bagpipes. He shook his head, pressing his mouth into a tight line as he watched and waited expectantly.

“No bagpipes? Well, what about the bassoon? You play the bassoon, Wirt?”

“Mr. Whelan, I don’t have the embouchure for bassoon!” Wirt crossed his arms as he raised an eyebrow, challenging him now. “You should know that, you’re a music teacher.”

“I do know that and I have to say, I’m shocked that you know that. Who taught you the word embouchure?” Jonathan asked.

“My dad. Keep guessing, you have three left.” Wirt evaded that subject so quickly it gave him whiplash.

Still, they were here to guess about instruments and not talk about things like embouchure. “Right.” While it was still a game, some serious guesses needed to be made. He eyed the way Wirt drummed his fingers on his arm, picking at the fabric of his sweater. “Piano?”

“Mm-mm.” Wirt shook his head.

“Tuba?”

“No.” A hiccup of a giggle fluttered out of the boy’s mouth, his lips still fighting his smile. “One more guess.”

Jonathan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he steepled his fingers together. One more guess. The tuba one had been more of a joke than anything, but piano had been serious enough. What kind of instrument would a kid like Wirt play? As Jon narrowed his gaze in concentration, Wirt met his stare with a sort of cockiness. Like he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to guess. Well, it was good to see, at any rate. Seven-year-olds should feel cocky. They shouldn’t need to cower in fear and hide in the back of the classroom. Those anxieties would attack them enough once they were in middle school, seven-year-olds needed a chance to enjoy learning and have fun and nurture their little egos.

“Guitar,” Jonathan finally guessed, crossing his arms as he leaned back and waited for Wirt’s assessment.

Wirt finally smiled, nice and big as he shook his head a final time. “Nope,” he told him.

“No?” Jon slumped with defeat. “I was wrong?” Wirt nodded, still pleased with himself. “Was I even close?”

“A little,” Wirt admitted, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “When you guessed bassoon.”

“Really?” Jonathan blinked. “I was closest with the bassoon?”

“Mmhm!” He nodded eagerly. “I play the clarinet and it kinda looks like a bassoon.”

His eyes couldn’t help but widen as his student willingly gave out the information. “You play clarinet?” he asked softly, watching as Wirt realized just what he admitted.

“Yes,” he replied, returning to staring at the floor. “Clarinet.”

Jon grinned broadly. “Clarinet. Oh, that’s a great instrument. One of my favorites. Do you take lessons?”

Wirt hesitated, his shoulders hunching up a little as he shook his head. “I used to, but I stopped. I teach myself with music books from the library now.”

It was interesting that he chose to say “I stopped.” It made it sound like it was the seven-year-old’s choice rather than his parents’. But then why would he continue teaching himself if he didn’t want lessons? Jonathan pictured the music shop downtown that advertised its various lessons via flyers in the window and behind the cash register. Maybe they just weren’t as good as the multi-colored sheets of paper claimed.

“Well, I’d love to hear you play sometime. Do you have your own clarinet?” He waited for Wirt to nod before continuing. “You should bring it in to class next time and we can have a little jam session. What do you say? Sound like fun?”

He paled quickly and shook his head, eyes wide with horror. “No. No, no, I’m- I’m not any good yet. No one wants to hear me play. I-I mean- my dad says- _said_ -” Wirt hunched in on himself as he fumbled with his words. “I can’t. Sorry, Mr. Whelan. Sorry.”

With that the boy ran from him, all the way to his desk in the back and proceeded to bury his nose in a book he pulled from his backpack. Jonathan blinked. Well, he may not have much experience with teaching kids yet, but he was fairly certain that Wirt’s reaction was not a normal case of stage fright. Claiming that no one wanted to hear him play made Jon change his assumption that the boy stopped lessons on his own and that his parents, or at least his father, had forced it in some manner.

Well, whatever the reason for his reaction, it was a shame. Kids this young should be excited about learning new things, their efforts praised and nurtured. Of course Wirt wouldn’t be a clarinet expert at age seven – or well, maybe he could be, but the average seven-year-old was not an expert musician. Mistakes were normal at this age, expected. They were experiences to learn from.

He glanced down at the perfectly filled out worksheet, then up at the boy in the back of the classroom, reading about… architecture. Architecture? Jonathan shook his head. Well, this Wirt Palmer was just getting more interesting by the minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to structure Jonathan's music class with the kids after what I remember of my elementary school's music classes. I know that his classes probably aren't the most realistic, but he's having fun with it, I'm having fun with it, and I hope you have fun with it and that's what counts. 
> 
> I really enjoy writing little!Wirt, by the way. This fic is pretty much an excuse to write a bunch of Wirt before he becomes the nerd we all know and love today. And a bunch of Jon and Amy. They're fun to write, too.


	2. Amelia Palmer - September

Amelia Palmer pulled her hair into a high ponytail with one hand, rubber band clenched between her teeth as she checked her watch for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. Three forty-two. He was late. Typical. Rolling her eyes, the twenty-nine-year-old woman snapped the hair tie around her frizzy, dark brown hair, then dropped to her knees on the shag carpeted floor to feel under the bed for her shoes. She found one black ballet flat and one pewter. With a frustrated huff, she abandoned the bed and hurried into the living room, both shoes in hand.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, locating the twin of the patent pewter flat.

She tossed the black one over her shoulder, shuffling into her shoes as she checked her watch again. Three forty-five. Her brow furrowed. She didn’t have much time.

A quick glimpse down the hall revealed the second bedroom door to be shut. The coast was clear. Amy stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the landline from the wall, punching in the numbers that had become all too familiar to her by now. She pursed her lips as a casual “Hello,” floated from the speaker.

“You forgot again, didn’t you?” she accused, glancing over her shoulder quickly to make sure the door was still shut.

Her ex-husband’s silence was answer enough, followed by a heavy sigh and she could picture him rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It’s _this_ weekend?”

“Yes, it’s _this_ weekend,” she hissed into the phone, turning her back to the hallway to keep her voice from echoing in the small house. “Mort, this is getting ridiculous. This is the third month in a row you’ve missed.”

“Amy, I’m sorry, but there’s a lot going on here right now. I’ve got several projects that I need to finalize before relocating to New York and they’ve really needed my attention. It slipped my mind,” he told her, one excuse after another.

“Why did you ask for partial custody if you weren’t going to use it?” She drummed her blunt fingernails on the orange-tinted Corian countertop.

“Because I thought it’d be good to have. You know, for when I do want to see him.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, fist clenching so even those blunt nails dug painfully into her palm. “That’s not how partial custody works, Mort. It’s not some whim where you get to decide when it’s convenient to see your son. Partial custody means you’re partially responsible for him.”

“I send you child support every month. He’s on my health insurance,” Mort replied.

“And you think that’s enough?” She raised an eyebrow despite the fact that he couldn’t see it. “You might as well not even _have_ custody if you’re going to act like some estranged uncle!”

“Then why didn’t you fight me on it?”

Amy rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she took to pacing the length of the small kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I thought it would be good for him to see you every now and then? You are his father. He loves you. And for whatever reason, our son wants you in his life and I’m not going to be the one to deny him that. That’s on you.”

“You want me to take him this weekend? Fine, I’ll take him. I can pick him up around seven. But I’m going to be in the office for a few hours this weekend, so I’ll have to get him a babysitter and you never seem to like the ones I pick.”

“He doesn’t like strangers,” Amy reminded him, narrowing her gaze while Mort scoffed on the other end, as if finding their son’s distrust of strangers to be one of the most ridiculous things he’d ever heard. “And don’t bother. Forget it. I’m already late for work. I’m going to drop him off at the Daniels’s for the evening and we’ll just… we’ll just reschedule. What about next weekend?”

Mort sighed. “I already told you I’ll be in New York looking at apartments next weekend.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about those once a month visits when you’re in a completely different state?” Amy shook her head, pausing her frantic pacing near the sink, the dishes from lunch still sitting in the basin, but she ignored them in favor of glowering out the window. “You can’t even handle it being twenty minutes away! You’ve seen him a total of three times since the divorce. It’s been six months, Mortimer. This has not been off to a good start.”

“I’m sorry that I’ve been _busy_ , Amelia,” he gritted through his teeth. “But you don’t know how difficult it’s been for me!”

“Oh, what and I haven’t been busy? Things haven’t been difficult for me?” She pressed her hand over her heart, trying to calm the fury fluttering in her chest. “For Wirt?”

“You’re the one who decided to get the divorce. Not me,” he reminded her.

She snorted. “Not like you did much to fight it.”

“What was I supposed to do? What did you _want_ me to do?”

“I don’t know!” She pressed her hand to her face, shielding her eyes as a mild ache throbbed behind them from the sound of his voice alone. “I don’t know what I wanted you to do. All I know is you didn’t do it.”

Silence took over on both ends of the line. Mort’s breathing was quiet and steady and Amy attempted to match it. As she lowered her hand from her face, she couldn’t help but glimpse at the bare ring finger of her left hand. It had been six months since the finalization back in March, but she still wasn’t used to the emptiness.

She was used to the emptiness of her bed, though, and the emptiness in her heart which had been present for far longer than six months. Somehow, she thought those things should’ve caused more of an emotional impact than a stupid ring. Her palm pressed flat over her abdomen as she leaned against the tired, chipped kitchen cabinets. So much emptiness.

Quietly, hesitant for a rare moment in his life, Mort asked, “What do you want me to do now?”

For a second she could hear the boy she fell in love with at sixteen. The man she promised her life to in exchange for his at twenty-one. Sometimes he let her see that boy, that man – his soft intellect and passion for making his mark in the world around him and fierce confidence. But it wasn’t enough. Not when it was shadowed by the careless arrogance that had once made him seem so attractive to her. Now it was merely a blemish on the man’s soul that she couldn’t see past and couldn’t forgive no matter how many times he promised he’d “change.”

She promised herself that she wouldn’t listen to another one of his promises again the day her six-year-old ran to her sobbing, a dark, red ring around his tiny wrist from where “Dad grabbed too hard,” only to quietly absolve him of any and all blame minutes later with a simple, “It was my fault. Dad said I was playing too loud and I didn’t listen. I’ll listen better next time. Please don’t be mad at him.”

That night she told her husband it was over and he left with only one thing to say in his defense. “It’s not my fault. You pushed me. I wasn’t ready to be a father, Amelia.”

After six years to get used to the idea, he should’ve been able to at least fake it.

With a heavy sigh, Amy shook her head. “Just… enjoy your weekend. We’ll talk about what to do for next month later. I’ve got to go.”

“Alright. Tell him… tell him I’ll see him soon,” Mort replied. “Goodbye, Amy.”

“Bye,” she murmured, then ended the call.

She pressed the phone to her forehead and groaned quietly. Talking to him was always such an ordeal. The last thing she wanted to do was go to work after a conversation like that, but the bills needed to be paid and Wirt was in desperate need of longer pants as the weather got colder. He’d grown since last winter. She counted to ten in her head, then released a deep breath and turned to place the phone back in its cradle.

Wirt stood where the kitchen opened up into the living room, watching her with a pensive, brown-eyed stare while clutching an orange-furred, stuffed bear. She jumped a little, hand going over her heart yet again as it raced. Her newly seven-year-old could really be stealthy when he wanted to be. How long had he been standing there?

She tried for a smile, setting the phone down. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you need something?”

“No,” he replied, gaze darting to the phone for a brief second. “Was that Dad?”

Amy steeled herself, bracing every muscle and bone in her body for the disappointment that was sure to follow what she had to say. “Yes,” she hedged, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Yes, it was. You see, something came up last minute and he’s not going to be able to take you this weekend. He’s really sorry.”

“Oh.” Wirt’s fingers tightened around the arm of his bear – Secret Bear – but that was the only indication that he was upset by the news. “That’s okay.”

Her heart broke just a little at his calm acceptance. “I’m sorry, Wirt, but he promised to try and make it work for next month.”

“Okay,” he replied again, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, his eyes focused somewhere on the wall behind her.

She sighed, then reached out and ruffled his hair. “Okay. Listen, I’m going to have to drop you off at Mrs. Daniels’s for a little bit, so if you packed anything that you want to take over with you, go ahead and grab it now and then we’ll head out. Try and be quick, alright?”

“I will. I didn’t pack my suitcase so it won’t take long.” With that Wirt turned on his heel and shuffled back to his room.

“Oh.” Amy waited until he was out of sight before burying her face in her hands. “ _Oh_.”

By the time he came out with his backpack slung over one shoulder, she’d composed herself enough to flash him a brilliant smile. He didn’t return it, but she could tell that he was relieved to see it from the way the lines around his mouth smoothed away. He was quiet on the drive over, but that wasn’t anything new. Her son was usually quiet, even before this entire mess. He simply looked out the window and held tight to Secret Bear, the Care Bear she’d sewn for him when he was four and delighted by something as simple and joyful as The Care Bears Movie.

“You can tell her anything you want,” she’d assured him with a grin as she bestowed the finished stuffed animal to him while tucking him in on a night that seemed like a lifetime ago now. “Because no one can keep a secret…”

“Like Secret Bear,” Wirt had finished with a giggle, squeezing the tangerine colored bear tightly.

“Hey, so I’ll be able to pick you up around eight o’clock tonight,” Amy spoke up cheerfully as she turned onto the street for The Daniels’s house, across from the high school. “Which means if you take your bath as soon as we get home, then I think we’ll be able to read _two_ chapters of ‘The Hobbit’ before bed tonight, how does that sound?”

Wirt looked away from the window to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Sounds good,” he answered.

“Good.” She tightened her fingers on the steering wheel as she pulled up to the curb in front of the house.

Together, the two Palmers walked up to the little wooden gate fencing in the front yard, then up to the porch. Amy rang the doorbell, then placed her hand at the nape of Wirt’s neck as he scuffed the toes of his shoes against the wooden floorboards. The door swung open fairly quickly, revealing the younger of the two Mrs. Daniels, the one who had watched her son from the time he was weaned. The woman grinned as she took in the pair of them.

“Well, isn’t this a treat! Wirt, I didn’t think I’d get to see you this weekend.” She reached out and gave his cheek a pat. “Come in, come in. Go on and put PBS on in the living room and make yourself comfortable.”

Wirt nodded as he crossed the threshold, hunkering down in the foyer to remove his shoes before carting his backpack and bear over to the TV. Amy watched him for a moment, making sure he was out of earshot before turning her attention back to Mrs. Daniels.

“I’m so sorry for this, I know it’s last minute, but Mort-”

“Dropped the ball again. No need to explain anything to me, Amelia. I understand. I didn’t go through three marriages myself just for the fun of it. I learned a thing or two from my experiences.” Mrs. Daniels gave her a pat on the arm. “I’m more than happy to watch your boy for a few hours. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Amy sagged with relief. “Thank you. My shift ends at eight, so I’ll be here as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Your boy’s never any trouble,” she assured her.

Unable to help the proud smile, she nodded, then looked past Mrs. Daniels to where her son sat primly on the couch. “Bye, sweetheart. Be good.”

“Bye, Mom.” Wirt turned to look at her and waved, then his gaze went right back to the screen of what appeared to be Arthur or an animated children’s show like it.

She was only a few minutes late, after all that, but Mr. Holloway – the owner of Holloway’s, the diner she’d worked at from the time she was in college – merely acknowledged it with a curt nod and a quiet reminder to not let it happen again. He’d been saying that ever since the divorce had been finalized, with no real bite behind it, but Amy couldn’t help but cringe with guilt every time she was even a minute late. It didn’t happen all that often, but on days where her ex forgot that he was supposed to pick Wirt up? Well, that’s when things got messy.

“Sorry, Mr. Holloway. My husband- I mean, Mort was supposed to pick up Wirt after school today, but he never came by the house to get him, so I had to- I’m sorry, I’ll get right to work. Sorry.”

The four to closing shift wasn’t usually so bad. By the time Wirt’s bus dropped him off at the house, she could usually get him to Mrs. Daniels’ in plenty of time. It was when she worked both lunch and dinner shifts that things got tricky. Working from noon to eight meant no one would be home when her seven-year-old arrived. Normally when she had to work that shift on weekdays, Wirt would take the school bus to a different stop, the one a block and a half from the diner and she’d meet him there and bring him back to work with her where he would sit in a corner booth and do his homework or read until her shift ended. When Mort had been around, he’d swing by and pick him up after work for her, but that wasn’t much of an option anymore.

Pasting on a happy smile, she hurried to the first table in her section right as her co-worker Delilah finished pouring their coffee. “Hi, I’m Amy and I’ll be helping you out this evening. What can I get started for you?”

-0-

As the clock ticked closer and closer to eight o’clock, Amy chewed on her lower lip as she watched her last table – the very last table – take their time chatting over their cherry pie. While normally she hated to rush people, always urging them to take their time and enjoy the food and ambience of the classic diner, she had a little boy to get home to and read about Bilbo Baggins with. He’d already had one huge disappointment today. She didn’t want to be the cause of another one.

“Adrienne,” she called out to her fellow waitress in the back. “Do you think you could finish my last table for me and close up? Please? They’re almost done.”

The younger waitress shot her a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Amy, but I’ve got plans tonight. Can’t you get Sue to cover for you?”

“She covered for me last time,” Amy sighed, crossing her arms. “And she didn’t seem pretty happy about it.”

Adrienne shrugged. “Well, I’m sure they won’t be much longer. You working tomorrow?”

Amy rubbed her temples and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got breakfast and lunch all weekend.”

“Aw, that’s tough. I’m working breakfast tomorrow, too, so I’ll see you for a bit, I guess. Have a good night.” Adrienne waved as she clocked out at eight on the dot, untying her apron and heading for the back door.

“Yeah, you too.” Amy waved back, then checked around the corner to see if the couple had finished their pie yet.

They hadn’t. And to top it off, the second they caught her eye, they lifted their mugs of coffee, the universal sign for a refill. She smiled politely and hurried over with the decaf coffee pot and asked if they needed anything else or if they’d like her to fetch them their check, but they were considering getting a slice of pie to go, so she found herself back in the back watching the hour hand pass by the eight ever so slowly.

-0-

It was almost nine o’clock when she pulled up to The Daniels’s. Both the Mrs. Daniels were home at this point, relaxing in the living room watching an old Western with Wirt fast asleep on the couch.

“He just couldn’t keep his eyes open another minute,” the older Mrs. Daniels told her. “And I don’t blame him, not with all the yard work I’m sure my wife had him help her with.”

“Those leaves don’t rake themselves, Margaret,” the younger Mrs. Daniels replied.

“I’m sorry, I got held up at the diner. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.” Amy lowered her voice as she tip-toed over to the couch and brushed Wirt’s bangs away from his face.

“Never,” both the Mrs. Daniels agreed.

As Amy scooped her son up into her arms, he squirmed a little and snuggled against her, his brow furrowing in quiet concentration. He hugged Secret Bear tighter as he laid his head on her shoulder, but he didn’t wake up. Plans for the next day were made in whispers while she carried him to the car, Mrs. and Mrs. Daniels agreeing to look after him with warm smiles as they brought his backpack out to her car for her.

“There are always more leaves to rake after all,” the younger Mrs. Daniels assured her. “Not to mention the weeds in the back.”

The older Mrs. Daniels swatted her wife’s shoulder. “What have I told you about using children for your manual labor, you lazy bean?”

“Goodnight, Mrs. and Mrs. Daniels,” Amy called to them softly, smiling as the pair of old biddies bantered.

“Goodnight, Amelia, dear,” they answered back.

The car drive home was spent in silence, too. Wirt remained asleep the entire time, strapped safely in the backseat, head lolling against the window. Amy swallowed down her disappointment as she drove. Not in her son, never in him, but in herself. She’d let him down.

She carried him into the house and through the dark, the path to his bedroom memorized. There were a few obstacles on the way to his bed. The usual books and toys, but also an empty suitcase. She tried not to think about how Wirt had to have dragged it out from under his bed, then sit and wait to see if his dad would actually show this time, unwilling to get his hopes up and actually pack the wretched thing.

Wirt grumbled sleepily as she dressed him for bed, but his eyes stayed closed. As she tucked the covers around his shoulders, Secret Bear clutched tightly in his arms, Amy pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

She left his door open a crack, then flicked on the hall light so it could leak into his bedroom, just in case he woke up. Rubbing her neck, she sighed and slumped against the wall. Pictures of their little family lined it. Most of them were of Wirt – his first birthday, his first tricycle, his first day of school, a regular day just feeding ducks at the park – but there were a few of all of them, and a few of her and Mort. One of their wedding photos still beamed at her at the end of the hall. She needed to take it down.

Hanging her head, she left it there for now and entered her room, kicking her shoes from her feet so they bounced and rolled under the bed. Right, so that’s how they got there. With a quiet snort, she slipped into the ensuite bathroom, determined to have a bath for herself at least. She would try and get Wirt in the shower before heading over to The Daniels’s again in the morning. It would be quicker than a bath and Wirt wasn’t very fond of being submerged in water as it was. He didn’t like showers very much either, but her child needed to get clean somehow. It was his face. He didn’t like water getting in his face.

Amy turned the faucet and filled her bathtub. Her son may not have been fond of baths, but she was at any rate. A good soak was just was she needed, the hours she spent waitressing nothing compared to a seven-minute conversation with her ex. It put her mind at ease for the time being, but it was a temporary balm, no better than Vaseline on chapped lips. Her heart certainly felt chapped, flaking and flayed beyond relief.

She stayed in the bath until the water turned cold and her skin pruned. Pulling on comfortable, oversized pajamas, she debated on whether or not to go to sleep with her hair wet when she heard the door of her bedroom open. She poked her head out of the bathroom to find Wirt blinking sleepily against the light, rubbing his eyes with his fist.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked, hurrying over to kneel in front of him. “Did you have a bad dream?”

He shook his head. “No. Just woke up.” As his eyes got used to the brightness, he blinked at her curiously. “You came and got me.”

Amy’s lips quirked up in an amused smile. “Of course I did, sweetie. I know I was a little late, and I’m sorry we didn’t get to read tonight, but I don’t have to work so late tomorrow, so I’ll definitely make it up to you. Promise.”

She tapped him on the nose, smiling wider as he scrunched it up and went a bit cross-eyed. Sniffing, he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, tucking Secret Bear under his other arm. His mouth twisted in a pensive sort of way, his eyes lined with concern as he averted his gaze.

“Everything okay?” Amy asked.

He thought a moment, then nodded. She ruffled his hair, then pulled him into a hug. He leaned into it, which was a good enough sign for her. Standing up straight, she pulled back the covers to her bed and gave it a pat. Wirt hesitated, an almost indignant expression furrowing his brow, but after a moment of consideration he climbed up and settled down. She watched him a moment, chewing on her lower lip as she debated something, then came to a conclusion. While she had to work tomorrow, it was still a weekend for Wirt and if he couldn’t sleep, no nightmares aside, then something was eating away at him.

Amy opened the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out the book she kept inside it. She showed Wirt the cover of “The Hobbit” with a smile and his eyes lit up. Realizing he looked a little too eager, Wirt pursed his lips, puffing out his cheeks as he nodded.  Slipping under the covers to join him, she found her place in the old, haggard book while her son and his bear snuggled up to her.

“‘Chapter Seven, Queer Lodgings,’” she began, taking a moment to smile at him as he pillowed his head on her shoulder. “‘The next morning, Bilbo woke up with the early sun in his eyes. He jumped up to look at the time and to go and put on his kettle and found he was not home at all.’”

They didn’t get very far into chapter seven. Still clinging to the vestiges of sleep, Wirt lost the battle with wakefulness fairly quickly. She didn’t bother changing the marker, they’d start again from the beginning of the chapter the next night. Amy set the book on her nightstand and doused the light from the lamp at her bedside. The light from the bathroom was still on, but Wirt preferred having a nightlight of sorts, whether it be one plugged into his wall or the light in the hall.

She smoothed back his hair and he scrunched up his face as he sniffled and curled against her side. “We’re gonna be okay,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his brow. “You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wirt having a Care Bear stuffed animal was partially a crack headcanon conceived by my sister and I over dinner one night like... way back in December. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought it totally could work. Wirt unloads a ton of his inner thoughts and angst on Greg in Over the Garden Wall, but I don't think it's because he thinks telling Greg is important, it's just that it's important for him to tell somebody. He's used to having someone or something to vent to in his darkest moments, so I think he had something before Greg that he confessed his worries to and Secret Bear seemed like an excellent vessel. Plus baby Wirt loving The Care Bears Movie???? Sign me up. 
> 
> Well, he loved it until Mort threw away their DVD because he couldn't stand the inane songs. He tried to throw away Secret Bear, too, but Amy wasn't having any of that.


	3. Wirt Palmer - October

There was a poster pinned to the bulletin board outside of the library. In big, bold letters – colorful and bright – it boasted: _Winter Concert Auditions are now Open! All 4_ _th_ _and 5_ _th_ _graders interested in auditioning, see Mr. Whelan in the Music Room before October 13_ _th_ _*_ At the bottom of the poster, with another matching asterisk, there was a quick note: _exceptions may be made for intrepid 3rd graders._

Wirt gripped the straps of his backpack tightly. Maybe if he did something as impressive as be in the Winter Concert for school…

He flinched as an older kid bumped into him in the hall. A quick apology was offered, but Wirt was already ducking into the safe haven of the library after the rest of his class. He slipped into the back of the line to return the book he’d borrowed last week, a how to draw book on trains, planes, and boats, in exchange for a book on how to draw buildings.

They didn’t look like the kind of buildings his dad drew. Rendered. His dad told him it was rendering, not drawing. Still, even if they didn’t look the same, he was a kid and this was a book to teach kids how to draw buildings. He’d work his way up, he’d decided, when he finished one of his dad’s books that had gotten left behind when he packed up his stuff and moved out. Someday he’d be able to render a real floor plan or a building schematic.  

While the other kids in his class looked for their next book for the week, Wirt settled in the farthest corner and pulled out a sheet of paper and pencil from his backpack. Opening the book, he found the first building the book wanted him to learn to draw was a house. He skipped that, flipping through the pages until he found a skyscraper – the kind of buildings his dad was an architect for now that he was going to New York.

Wirt gripped his pencil in his fist, pushing so hard that the tip of the lead snapped off. His brow furrowed as he stared at it, then glanced up to look for the pencil sharpener. The one mounted on the wall was all the way on the other side of the room. He’d have to walk directly through the middle of his classmates to get there. Wirt just opened his backpack and got a new pencil. He handled it with a much more delicate touch as he copied the steps the book told him to do in order to draw the skyscraper. Render the skyscraper.

It was ugly. A big blocky mess that looked nothing like the picture in the book. Wirt sagged in his chair. Maybe he should’ve started with the house first. He glanced up at the clock above the door. There were still fifteen minutes of library time. Pursing his lips, Wirt tapped the eraser of the pencil on the table a few times, then erased his awful skyscraper. Careful not to rip the paper at all, his smoothed his hand over the slightly rumpled page, then placed it directly over the finished skyscraper in the book.

Heart hammering in his chest, Wirt traced the building, glancing up every now and then to make sure no one was watching. He took his time though. He didn’t want to rush it. With five minutes left in library time, he finished and sat back to examine it. It looked much better than the first one he did, but it also didn’t look like something he could draw himself. A lump swelled in his throat that he had to swallow past and his eyes stung a little, but he was careful not to cry. Crying in public only got people staring and pointing and whispering.

He added a few extra sketchy lines to make it look more like a drawing and to give it more of his personality. Just a little. Next to it he wrote: _I made this for you, Dad. I miss you and I hope to see you soon. Love, Wirt_ and added a big heart right below his name. The pencil hovered over the curve of the heart for a minute or two, Wirt’s uncertainty making his palms clammy. When the bell rang and the kids around him got up to leave, he jumped in his seat and hastily erased the heart before tucking the drawing into his backpack and rushing after his classmates.

He passed by the bulletin board again, gaze caught by the winter concert flyer and his heart skipped a beat. Maybe…

-0-

Lunch recess found him standing outside of the music room. Fidgeting in front of the closed door, Wirt struggled to remember just how he got there and if there was still time for him to turn tail and run back outside before anyone noticed he was missing. Most people didn’t notice him. He liked it that way.

Didn’t he?

Furrowing his brow and pursing his lips, Wirt scuffed the toes of his shoes against the floor as he stared at the door. With a deep breath through his nose, he knocked and took two giant steps back. Like a cornered animal, he watched the door with wide-eyed trepidation. Nothing happened. Chest heaving with shallow breaths, Wirt swallowed thickly as he took a few tiny steps back over to the door and knocked again. Still nothing.

“Mr. Whelan?” Wirt squeaked out, opening the door a crack to peek inside. “Mr. Whelan, are you in here?”

It was a stupid question, he berated himself mentally as he opened the door wider. The classroom was clearly empty or someone would’ve answered the door when he knocked the first time. Or even the second time, in case they didn’t hear the first time. Wirt crossed his arms across his chest as he scanned the classroom. It was better when it wasn’t full of other kids, he reflected, taking a few steps further beyond the threshold.

The music room had nice big windows that faced the grassy lawn of the school by the parking lot. Wirt walked up to it, standing on his tiptoes to watch the line of kids playing red rover. Red rover, red rover, send someone right over. Wirt frowned. He didn’t like red rover. He didn’t like having to break through the linked arms, and hated when he couldn’t break through them even more.

He looked away from the window. Maybe he should go. What was he even doing in here? It was probably against the rules. He wasn’t sure, but did he really want to take a chance of getting yelled at for trespassing? His dad always yelled at him when he went into his office without his permission, and the classroom was like Mr. Whelan’s office, wasn’t it? Mr. Whelan wasn’t even related to him, so he wouldn’t go easy on him. He’d probably yell worse than his dad.

But Mr. Whelan didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d yell. He smiled a lot more than his dad did. Wirt hesitated, gaze darting to the door. Maybe he wouldn’t get in trouble if he just sat and waited. Glancing at his seat in the back of the rows, he debated going over there to sit down, but took one of the chairs in front instead. No one else was here, so it didn’t really matter where he sat, right?

Knocking his knees together, he stared at the now familiar music posters that littered the walls of the room. There was a giant treble clef and a music staff on the wall where the door was. It was one of those adhesive, fake whiteboard posters that you could write on and erase with marker. Mr. Whelan probably wrote notes on it for the older kids when they practiced instruments.

Speaking of instruments, there were several out on Mr. Whelan’s desk. Wirt felt a small buzz of wonder as he noted the trombone, ukulele, and clarinet all sitting out of their cases. His dad always got mad at him for forgetting to put his clarinet away in its case, so it was nice to see a real music teacher who loved music sometimes forgot, too.

Wirt pursed his lips and glanced around. No one was here. No one would know if he just took a look at Mr. Whelan’s clarinet.

He slid out from the little plastic chair and tip-toed over to the desk. The clarinet was a little bit bigger than the one he used, but he figured a pro like Mr. Whelan wouldn’t need the same kind of clarinet that he did. Positioning his fingers on the upper and lower joints, he placed his lips on the mouthpiece and played a sample chord. It pretty much sounded the same.

Pleased, Wirt played a song from memory. He tapped the beat out with his foot, then rocked back and forth to keep the tempo as he played, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” His eyes closed as he got into it, the notes flashing behind closed eyelids in colorful whispers. It was his favorite part of playing – being able to lose himself in the music. He could pretend like he was nothing outside of the sounds he produced.

The low tones from the clarinet swelled as he reached the crescendo, then he eased back down in a softer, quieter range as he finished off the song. He smiled to himself, eyes still closed as the last lingering note faded. He’d played it almost perfectly. A gentle clapping sounded behind him, shattering the inner peace he’d achieved and Wirt yelped, clutching the clarinet as he spun about to face Mr. Whelan.

The man stood in the doorway, grinning as he continued to applaud Wirt’s playing. “You are a natural, Wirt,” he told him, the pride in his voice unmistakable.

Wirt took a few steps back until he bumped into the teacher’s desk. “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Whelan.” He glanced from the man to the clarinet, then hastily placed it back with the other instruments. “I won’t do it again!”

“I certainly hope you will!” Mr. Whelan replied. “That was really, very good, Wirt.”

He ducked his head, scuffing his shoes against the floor. “But… but I played your clarinet without asking.”

“Well, serves me right for leaving it out in the open,” he chuckled, warm and inviting and not at all mad-sounding. “But I don’t regret it in the slightest. It was a real treat to hear you play.”

Wirt chanced a hesitant glance up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Whelan nodded, crossing the room to stand behind his desk, not even batting an eye when Wirt scurried around it to stand by the chairs instead. “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

He shook his head rapidly, kicking himself mentally because he did have a reason for coming in here. His cheeks and ears burned when Mr. Whelan appeared to figure that out, but only hummed thoughtfully in response as he took apart the clarinet to place it back in its case. Wirt watched silently, his gaze only occasionally flicking to the door and the hallway beyond. He jumped when the case clicked closed.

“Have you seen the flyers for the winter concert around school yet?” Mr. Whelan asked, moving on to the trombone while he waited for Wirt’s nod. “Good! I’m really looking forward to it. All the kids in the after school band class are going to participate, but I’m really hoping that some others decide to come out and audition. I think it could really get kids excited about music.”

Wirt nodded again, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as the music teacher filled the silence with his cheerful talk. The fact that he brought up the winter concert had his heart pounding though. He really wanted to ask about it, but his lips stayed sealed shut on the matter. The flyer said only fourth and fifth graders would be considered, and some third graders if they were good enough. Wirt was in second grade. There was no way he was good enough, he didn’t know why he even bothered coming to ask.

“You know, so far I don’t have as many clarinet players as I’d like for that section,” Mr. Whelan continued and Wirt perked up. “I could really use a talented clarinetist like yourself. What do you say, Wirt? Were you at all interested in auditioning?”

His jaw dropped, eyes wide as he stared at him. “But… but the flyer said-”

“That’s just a general guideline. We can always make a few exceptions.” Mr. Whelan smiled, picking up his ukulele when he finished with the trombone. “I think you’ve got a ton of potential, Wirt. I wouldn’t doubt that you’d make the cut.”

Wirt paled, a lump growing hard in his throat. “I… um…”

If he auditioned, he’d have to play in front of a bunch of people who would be judging him to see if he was good enough. They might laugh at him. Laugh him right off the stage because he was seven and what did he know about playing clarinet?

But they also might like him. If they liked him, then he’d get to play in the concert, on stage. If he played on a stage, if he was good enough to play on a stage, then surely…

“I…” Wirt swallowed, glancing nervously between his shoes and Mr. Whelan. “I don’t know…”

“Think about it,” the music teacher offered kindly, his round face all smiles. “There’s still plenty of time to decide if you want to audition. Just keep it in mind.”

“Okay,” Wirt whispered, nodding quickly, then flinched hard as the bell screeched, signaling the end of lunch recess. “I- uh. I’ve gotta go now. I’ve got- class- um… thank you for not being mad, Mr. Whelan I’ll think about the concert okay bye!”

“Bye, Wirt. See you on Thursday!” Mr. Whelan called after him as he bolted from the music room.

-0-

It was a terrible idea. Completely terrible. He couldn’t play in front of _people_!

Wirt slammed the front door shut behind him, panting and red-faced from having run all the way from the bus stop. He leaned all of his weight against it while his backpack flopped down his arm to dangle from the crook of his elbow. His mind had been racing all afternoon, his heart rate only rising with each passing minute.

“Wirt? Is that you?” his mom called from her bedroom. “What have I told you about slamming the door?”

“Sorry, Mom!” he answered, breathlessly, hiking up his backpack.

It… it could be fun… though. Maybe. He did like playing the clarinet, and he thought he’d gotten pretty good since last year when he was just beginning and had no idea what the notes meant. Well, he still didn’t really know what the notes meant, he mostly played it by ear, but Mr. Whelan encouraged both sight reading and playing by ear in class.

And Mr. Whelan did say he was good-

No. Wirt shook his head. No, no, no. He was not going to audition for the concert. He’d already looked up the rules for it. You had to play, by yourself, in front of Mr. Whelan, the fifth grade teachers, and the principle! And the other kids waiting in line to audition after you! Big kids! Nine, ten, and eleven-year-olds! They’d see him – his short, clumsy seven-year-old self – and they’d laugh. They’d point and laugh and he’d play awful and-and-and-!

Working himself up into another hyperventilating mess, Wirt pushed away from the door and darted down the hall to his bedroom. He didn’t want to be freaking out in the middle of the living room in case his mom walked in. He closed his door and dumped his backpack onto the floor.

Face first, he flopped onto his bed. It was a terrible idea. But he really wanted to play in the concert. It looked like fun. But it was a terrible idea.

He glanced up, Secret Bear catching his eye. He immediately reached out and clutched the bear to his chest. Wirt rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe if he was good enough, he could play music on stage for people. He could easily envision all the moms pointing out their kids to strangers with pride, and all the dads videotaping it.

“I could… I could audition,” he murmured to Secret Bear, picking at her fur. “It’s mostly Mr. Whelan who decides and he’s already heard me play. And, I mean, I wouldn’t have to play by myself. I’ll be playing with other kids in the concert. I won’t be alone. But I’ll have to audition alone. I’ll be all by myself for that. I don’t want to play by myself, but I want to be in the concert.”

He sighed heavily, lying splayed out on his bed with his bear flopped on his chest as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t think he’d been doing it for very long when he heard his mom come into the hall and call out for him. She sounded so happy, even though she must’ve been really tired from working all morning. She’d had to work all afternoon and stay until closing the night before, then open this morning, so he knew she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

She knocked lightly on the door, then poked her head in. Yep, she was tired. Despite the sunny light in her eyes, dark lines edged them from exhaustion. Her hair, usually neat and tight in a high pony tail, was frizzy and limp and sticking out every which way. Her pony tail sagged low, closer to her neck like an old timey president, and there was still a pencil tucked behind her ear for taking orders.

She gave him a little wave. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry I didn’t have your snack ready for when you got home. Your silly mom fell asleep while folding clothes, can you believe it? Want me to make you something now?”

His stomach churned at the thought of apple slices with peanut butter joining the crippling torment of his soul. He forced a smile for her. “No thank you.”

“Alright. I’ll just finish up with the laundry and then I can help you with your homework if you need it before I start dinner,” she offered.

Wirt shook his head. “I’m okay. I don’t need help.”

“That’s great, sweetheart. I just want you to know that I’m here if you have any questions.”

“I know. Thanks.”

She smiled and winked at him, leaving the door open as she walked down the hall to her room. He watched the doorway for a few more minutes, then sighed and slid off the bed. If he didn’t at least start his homework then she’d worry, and his mom already had too much to worry about anyway, he didn’t want to add onto that. Plus, homework would take his mind off the back and forth his head seemed pretty intent on having over the winter concert.

He pulled his homework packet out, brow furrowing as he looked at it without really seeing it. Rehearsals for the concert were held after school, to make sure that they had enough to time to learn all the songs. An hour every day. He’d miss the school bus. He’d need to be picked up.

Wirt worried his lower lip with his teeth, glancing out his bedroom door into the hall. The reason he took the school bus in the first place was because she couldn’t always pick him up. His mom worked all kinds of shifts at the diner. It would be two whole months of having to leave work early or go to work late just to pick him up. He couldn’t audition.

A tear slipped out, dripping onto the cover of his math book. Wirt gasped, then sniffed hard and rubbed his face with his sleeve. It was fine. He didn’t want to audition anyway. It was a terrible idea.

He finished all of his homework before dinner, where mother and son sat across from each other at their little square table. Pork chops and applesauce with a side of broccoli were picked at as Wirt tried not to wallow. It was surprisingly very hard not to wallow.

“How was school today, Wirt?” his mom asked, genuinely interested.

“Fine.” He shrugged, forcing down a chunk of pork into the applesauce cup on his plate.

“Was today PE day or…?”

“No. It’s Tuesday. Library day’s Tuesday. PE is Wednesday and music class is Thursday,” he reminded her.

“Right,” she laughed to herself. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s hard to keep up with your schedule sometimes. It’s different from last year. So was the library fun? Did you get a new book to read?”

Wirt shrugged again. “Yeah. And it was okay.” _Mr. Whelan said I’m a natural at the clarinet and wants me to audition for the winter concert._ “I finished my book.”

“Oh? The one you just got?” she asked.

“No. The one about the history of architecture. I finished it at lunch today. Can I have another one?” He looked up from his food to watch her reaction. “Mom?”

She blinked. “Wow, you finished it already? That’s my smart boy.” She smiled at him, but the light didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll see what I can find. Your dad did leave a lot of his books. I’m sure there’s something.”

Wirt nodded. _Mom, can I audition for the winter concert?_ He pushed around his broccoli, careful to keep them away from the pork chop and the applesauce. He wished he could just eat the broccoli so he could stop looking at them. They were green and looked like trees which reminded him of Christmas trees which reminded him of Christmas which reminded him of winter and the winter concert that he didn’t really actually want to audition for. At all. He tightened his grip on his fork. _Do you think Dad would come visit if I was in something like, I dunno, a winter concert? No, stop it. I don’t want to be in the stupid concert._

“So parent-teacher conferences are next week, right?” his mom asked, changing the subject.

He didn’t know why she asked, he knew that she found out the day of parent-teacher conferences at the beginning of the year so she could get the time off for them. “Yeah.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I’m excited to meet your teacher.”

“It’s just Mrs. Applegate.”

She smiled. “Yes, well, I’m still looking forward to meeting her.”

Wirt fished out the drowning pork chop pieces from his apple sauce, finally eating them one after another until they were gone. His fork clattered on the plate as he dropped it and stood from his seat. “Can I be excused?”

“Wirt, you didn’t eat your vegetables. I thought you liked broccoli.” She frowned a little, then pointed to his chair with her fork. “Sit back down and eat at least half of them.”

“But I want to watch TV,” he protested.

“You can watch TV after broccoli.” She lifted an eyebrow, staring him down until he sighed and caved dramatically.

“ _Fine_.”

When she wasn’t looking, he hid some of the broccoli in the pockets of his pants. He’d just need to remember to fish them out later and flush them down the toilet so she wouldn’t find them when she did the laundry.


	4. Amy - October

Amy Palmer fidgeted nervously as she glanced around the bustling gymnasium. Tables were set up along the perimeter with little fold-out chairs and signs to guide parents to the correct grade and teacher. While it wasn’t her first foray into parent-teacher conferences, the whole experience never failed to turn her into a bundle of nerves. Other mothers pushed strollers filled with sticky toddlers along with them, or bounced from teacher to teacher for their bundle of school-aged kids. Then there were the mothers with their husbands. 

She tucked her dark chestnut hair behind her ear. It had taken an hour with the curling iron to get it just right. In a moment of quiet panic, she turned to scan the crowd of children for her son. Wirt sat curled up in a corner by the bleachers, his eyes quickly scanning the pages of his new architecture book. Her heart filled, with both joy for her son’s sharp mind and with despair at the damage Mort had left behind. Briefly, she wondered if it was a good idea to encourage him reading his father’s old books. 

“Mrs. Palmer? Your turn,” the middle-aged Mrs. Applegate called for her.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” She approached the woman’s table and took a seat in front of her. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Applegate. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to Back to School Night at the beginning of the year, you see there was a scheduling problem at my work and I had to-”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Palmer. You’re not the first parent to miss it. I understand things comes up.” Amy stiffened as the woman peered at her from over her bifocals. “You’re much more talkative than your son.”

“Oh?” Her smile became strained. “Well, he can be a bit shy at first, but when he does warm up to a situation he has so much to say! He’s a very bright boy, my Wirt.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mrs. Palmer. Wirt is a wonderful addition to my class. He’s doing excellent work in language arts and reading. Math and science could be better, but a lot of my students tend to struggle at this point in those areas. His homework packets are always perfectly completed and he always follows directions.”

Amy relaxed and began to preen. “I know. He takes his homework very seriously. He lets me look over his work from time to time. He’s very thorough.”

“He is. So, it’s not Wirt’s academics that concern me, Mrs. Palmer.” Mrs. Applegate removed her glasses and folded them before meeting the woman’s gaze once again. “When I said you’re much more talkative than your son, I really meant that. It’s not a simple case of shyness. Wirt does not talk.”

“What? Not even when you call on him?” She fought the urge to turn her head to check on her son. 

“No, of course he speaks when called on. He talks to me quite easily, as he does with his other teachers. It’s socialization with his peers that concerns me. He doesn’t talk to them.” Mrs. Applegate tilted her head. “He doesn’t seem to want to make friends with his classmates.”

“Well, I think he works himself up over little things and thinks of what-if scenarios and all sorts of things that scare him away from putting himself out there. I’m… I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.”

“Have you considered therapy, Mrs. Palmer?” Mrs. Applegate asked abruptly. “I understand that your situation at home is… challenging at the moment. Perhaps Wirt would benefit from having some outside help. Just to get him to open up to someone, in case he’s harboring some concerns about the divorce.”

“I…” 

This time Amy did turn around, her eyes wide with worry as they settled on her son. He’d stopped reading, though his book still sat open on his knees, and he’d taken to watching a group of kids on the other side of the gymnasium. 

“He doesn’t really like strangers. I don’t think he’d want to go,” she replied honestly. “And I don’t really have the money. Is it… you don’t think there’s something wrong with him, do you?”

Mrs. Applegate leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “No, no. Of course nothing’s wrong with him. It’s only a mild concern I have.”

“Mild. Okay.” She measured her breaths carefully. “Well. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Other than that, your son is a fine student. And I do appreciate that he doesn’t cause any trouble. He’s very good at blending in, keeping to himself.”

Amy nodded reluctantly. “Yes. He is good at that.”

Teacher and parent thanked each other for their time as Amy rose from her seat, with a folder of Wirt’s work over the past quarter. She tucked it under her arm and turned to head back over to her son. On her way, she received a quick tap on the shoulder. 

“Ah, excuse me, did I hear correctly that you’re Mrs. Palmer? Wirt’s mother?”

Amy turned and blinked at the man who garnered her attention. He was of average height, a little round in the face, with a thick crop of wheat colored hair atop his head. His clothes were professional enough, a little bowtie snug at his collar and a brown blazer didn’t make him out to be a malicious sort of person right off the bat. 

She tried to convey the same friendly nature, despite her worry over Wirt. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

He flashed her a brilliant smile and held out his hand. “I’m Mr. Whelan, Wirt’s music teacher. Well, everyone’s music teacher. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Oh. The music teacher. She smiled and shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I believe Wirt’s been enjoying his music classes. That, and library time.”

He laughed, warm and genuine. “Good, I’m glad! I enjoy having him in my class as well. Say, has he mentioned anything to you about the winter concert?”

“No. I don’t believe so,” she replied casually, even though she was very sure that he hadn’t. 

Mr. Whelan’s face fell a bit. “I see.”

She glanced over at Wirt, fully engrossed in his reading once more. “Is there something that he should have told me?”

“No, not necessarily. It’s completely up to him.” He was quick to explain. “He’s just- he’s an extremely bright boy. His sight reading is phenomenal and his knowledge of music theory for a boy his age astounds me. Not to mention it seems that he took to the clarinet like… like… frogs to the mud! Or um, something like that.” Mr. Whelan waved his hand around.

Amy couldn’t help grinning at that strange, mental image. “That’s wonderful to hear, Mr. Whelan.”

“Yes, well, I pulled him aside the other day and encouraged him to audition for the concert and I wasn’t sure how he took it, exactly. I know he enjoys playing the clarinet, but the thought of auditioning made him a bit skittish. I told him to think about it, and well, I guess I thought he might talk about it with you.” Mr. Whelan finished, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Well, he hasn’t mentioned anything to me yet, but he has been a bit distracted lately, so I’m sure he’s considering it,” she replied.

“Do you think he’s mentioned it to Mr. Palmer, at all?”

Amy’s smile turned a little melancholy, but she’d had practice with this. It wasn’t the first time someone asked after the man and it wouldn’t be the last. “There is no Mr. Palmer. Well, I mean, of course there is. He’s out there somewhere, just not at home. Wirt doesn’t see him much.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He hastened to cover his tracks. “I didn’t mean to presume-”

“I know. It’s alright. It’s really for the best. As much as Wirt misses him, he wasn’t the best father figure.” 

She wrinkled her nose, recalling the late nights, missed bedtime stories, and the way he snapped at Wirt whenever he was home because he was “too tired for games.” Her son deserved better than that. No matter how exhausted she was from a day’s work at the diner, she always made sure she had time for him. He knew that, right? His silence in school wasn’t because he felt ignored at home, was it?

She glanced over this Mr. Whelan in front of her, honestly expressing concern in her boy. “So… he really likes the clarinet? We had to stop his lessons recently and I just wasn’t sure… I mean, I knew he liked practicing, but I haven’t heard him play in some time…”

The man blinked and straightened. “Yes, it seems so. As someone who is passionate about music, I know another music lover when I see one.”

“Do you think it’s good for him? I mean, he’s passionate about reading and tinkering in his room with trains and legos, but it would be nice for him to get involved in something like clarinet again, wouldn’t it?” she inquired. 

He smiled, a little shy. “Well, I think that music is an excellent way to express oneself. Wirt puts his heart in his playing, I think he really uses it to communicate himself in a way that he thinks he can’t with words.”

They both looked to Wirt then, hope filling Amy’s heart and warming the chill that Mrs. Applegate had inspired, however unintentionally, with her concerns. So he was a shy boy, maybe this was just what he needed to come out of his shell a bit. Maybe make a friend or two. Find someone or something to help him. 

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Amy promised Mr. Whelan. 

“Mom?”

Mr. Whelan and Amy looked down to find Wirt standing off to the side, book tucked under one arm while his backpack hung off the other. “Hi, sweetheart. I was just having a chat with Mr. Whelan.”

“Hello, Wirt.” He grinned at her son, who offered a timid quirk of his lips in return. “Don’t worry,” he whispered conspiratorially, “It’s my professional opinion that your mother is in too good of a mood for Mrs. Applegate to have gotten you into any trouble. I think you’re safe.”

Wirt glanced up at Amy and she winked. “Mr. Whelan was just telling me about the winter concert. Sounds pretty fun.”

Her son couldn’t be baited so easily. He shrugged. “Mm-mm-mm.” He hummed the syllables for “I don’t know” and shifted his backpack. 

Amy clasped her hands together. “Are you thinking of auditioning?”

Fortunately her son had the world’s worst poker face and wore his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor. He stared at her, probably thinking she could read minds. She refrained from laughing, instead she bent down to be more at his level and smiled gently. 

“No, I don’t read minds, Wirt.” His eyes grew even wider. “It just sounded like something fun. If you’re interested in it, that is. It’s alright if you’re not.”

He shuffled his feet, glancing between her and his music teacher. “I thought about it, I guess. But I don’t want to. Audition. That is.”

“Auditioning’s not so scary, Wirt.” Mr. Whelan assured him. “I know it can seem that way, but what’s the worst case scenario?”

Wirt glanced up at him as if he were an idiot. “I do horribly in front of everyone.”

Mr. Whelan chuckled, seeming to take his student’s glare in stride. “Come on, I said worst case scenario, not the impossible. But I can understand. You want people to see you at your best. And what’s the best case scenario?”

Wirt pursed his lips. “I get to be in the concert. But I don’t think-!”

“Sweetheart.” Amy placed her hands on her son’s shoulders, turning him so he faced her. “Don’t think too hard about it. Put aside all the worry that’s in your head and focus on what you want. What do you want to do?”

He couldn’t hide from her. Not yet anyway. “I want… I want to be in the concert,” he mumbled, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor. He glanced up at her, suspicious. “But what about your work? Rehearsals are after school and the buses stop at three fifteen.”

“If this is something you really want to do, then we’ll figure it out, okay?” She ruffled his hair and he winced, fixing it himself with a disgruntled huff while she rose to be at Mr. Whelan’s height. “Now, let’s say goodbye to Mr. Whelan and then maybe we’ll get some ice cream on the way home. How’s that sound, kiddo?”

Wirt pretended to think about it. “Can I get two scoops?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Bye, Mr. Whelan.”

“Bye, Wirt. See you on Thursday. And for the audition, just play your favorite song and remember that anything’s possible if you set your mind to it. It’s all you need.” He gave him a thumbs up.

Wirt acknowledged it with a half nod, then scurried away for the doors, eager to get in the car sooner rather than later. Amy smiled sheepishly at the music teacher. He brushed it off with a good-natured grin.

“Thank you, Mr. Whelan. I think this could be really good for him.”

“Not a problem, Mrs. Palmer. I’ll be happy to have him. And, if picking him up after school is a problem, let me know. I can see if there are parents that would be willing to give Wirt a ride home from school, or I can always drop him off if necessary,” he offered.

“Thank you very much for the offer, but I’ll see what I can do. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” She brushed past him to follow her son, looking back over her shoulder as she walked.

He waved. “You too, Mrs. Palmer.”

She paused at the door, hesitating a moment before clearing her throat and glanced between him and the floor. “Thank you, Mr. Whelan.”

 

-0-

 

“What ice cream do you want, sweetie?”

Amy smiled down at her son. He hung back a little, standing on his tip-toes to see into the glass case rather than press right up against it the way other children might. Clutching the straps of his backpack, he pursed his lips as he read each and every flavor. Every now and then he’d glance at her, hunched up and worried, like he was taking too long, but she only ruffled his hair and waited patiently. 

“I… I don’t know,” he confessed, ducking his head away from her stare as well as the girl’s standing at the counter, awaiting their order.

Her chest tightened as she opened her mouth to suggest his favorite flavor, when she realized that she didn’t know. Mort always took Wirt out for ice cream. The few times where all of them went together, Wirt had been at ease enough to rattle of his order without a problem while she was the one debating over blueberry cheesecake or the more traditional butter pecan. When he ate ice cream at the diner, it was usually a scoop of vanilla with a slice of pie or a milkshake because there wasn’t much of a choice.

Oh god, she didn’t know her only child’s favorite flavor of ice cream. She could name his favorite pizza toppings off the top of her head – sausage, he adored sausage, and pepperoni and sometimes black olives if he felt daring enough to ask – and she knew his favorite kind of cake – coconut – and she knew that he only liked Fruity Pebbles, not Coco Pebbles, and that he ate Lucky Charms the same way every time – rice puffs first and then worked his way through his favorite shapes of marshmallows from least favorite to most favorite, the blue moons and stars being the ones he saved for last. But hell if she knew what kind of ice cream he liked.

And like hell she was ever going to ask Mortimer. He probably didn’t even remember. “Well, what sounds good to you right now?” she asked her son instead, stooping down to catch his eye, keeping her smile as reassuring as possible. 

Wirt shrugged. “Mm-mm-mm.”

“What do you usually get when Daddy takes you?” She tried instead, cringing at the way Wirt’s lip quivered at the mention of what he used to do with his dad. 

“Sometimes chocolate chip,” he mumbled, scraping the toe of his shoe against the floor over and over, wearing down the rubber. “Sometimes coconut almond.”

“Well, we’re getting you two scoops, so you could get one of each,” she suggested, but Wirt looked absolutely offended at the idea, eyes wide and brow furrowed.

“I don’t mix ice cream flavors,” he told her, like she should know. 

Amy bit down on her lower lip. Of course. Her son didn’t like his food to touch on his dinner plate, why would he be okay with different ice cream flavors touching? 

“Right, okay. Um… do you want either of those flavors now then? Or do you want to try something different?”

Wirt thought for a minute, then shook his head. “I want coconut almond,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she breathed, relief flooding her as she had an answer, then stood up to relay this information to the girl at the counter with an apologetic smile. “Two scoops of coconut almond, please.”

“Would you like that in a cup or a cone?” the girl asked hesitantly.

“Oh.” Amy glanced down at Wirt, his lips pursed in quiet contemplation as he observed her. “Sweetheart, cup or cone?”

“Cup,” he told her after a beat. “And I like hot fudge on my ice cream. Dad always lets me get hot fudge.”

“Okay. Hot fudge then.” She nodded at the girl, then gave her order, butter pecan on a cone for herself. “Why don’t you go find us a seat while I pay, Wirt?”

He nodded, then scurried away like a skittish mouse to a table in the far corner by the window. Amy watched until he was seated before turning her attention to paying. She left a tip in the cup on the counter, for not pressuring her son to make up his mind because that would only have made things worse, then grabbed a few napkins before taking their desserts to their table. 

Her smile came a bit easier when Wirt tucked into his ice cream eagerly, just like any little kid would. She wasn’t failing him. They would be fine. 

They ate their ice cream in companionable silence for a minute or two, Amy making the silent decision to try and make ice cream outings with Wirt a regular thing. Some sort of routine for him. Kids liked routines, at least her son did. With Mortimer out of the picture, he was going to need stability in the form of something, especially since her work schedule was so unpredictable. 

She caught a drip of butter pecan as it threatened her fingers by sliding down the cone, humming as she considered something not for the first time. Maybe she needed to start looking for new work again. She had a college degree, after all, and being a single mother-

She was a single mother. 

Another bubble of ice cream dripped down, but this time she let it slide against her palm. It was obvious. She was divorced now, with a child. That made her a single mother and there was nothing wrong with that, that was what she wanted-

She just didn’t realize that was something she would ever become. 

“Mom? Your… your ice cream’s melting.”

“What?” Amelia blinked, heart jumping as she was pulled from her thoughts. “Oh, so it is.” She plastered on a smile for her son as she hurried to maintain her ice cream while he stirred his up with his spoon. “Guess I should’ve gotten a cup, too, huh? Much less messy.”

Wirt shrugged, mouth set in a tight little line as his gaze dropped to the table. “Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” She tilted her head, giving him her full attention. 

“Did… did you- um... mail the letter I gave you? For Dad?” His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers.

Her shoulders sagged, but she maintained her smile just the same. “I did, yeah. Remember? I dropped it off at the post office on my way home from work last week.”

“Okay.” Wirt continued to stir his ice cream, fudge and coconut getting soupier by the minute. “Did… did he send a letter back yet?”

Swallowing thickly, she took a bite of her ice cream and let it sit on her tongue until it melted along with her excuse to avoid replying. “No. No, not yet,” she answered him, taking another bite when all he did was nod, gaze downcast while his fingers clenched around his spoon. “What- uh… what did you mail him, sweetie? You never told me.”

Wirt shrugged. “Just a rendering I made for him.”

“A rendering?” She couldn’t help but sigh, uncertain just how much she should encourage his fixation with architecture now. Was he honestly interested in it? Or was it a plea for Mort’s attention? Was it both? If it was both, did that make it okay? “Well, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“You don’t think he’s gotten it yet?” Her son’s brow furrowed as he considered the way she’d answered and she fidgeted in her seat as he looked up, hope shining in his eyes. “How long does it take for letters to go places? Does it take a long time?”

Amy licked her lips, fingernails drumming against the tabletop. “Sometimes, yeah. It depends on how busy the post office is,” she told him, careful in her reply.

“So Dad might not have gotten it yet?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay.” Wirt smiled this time, relief palpable and Amelia’s heart clenched for him. “Okay, good.”

He shoveled a spoonful of his drippy ice cream into his mouth, humming to himself as he crunched up some almonds between his teeth. No visits. No phone calls. What was she going to do when Mort took the hope of letters away from her son, too? Their son. Wirt was _their_ son. 

“Do you think- if I get to be in the winter concert, I mean… do you think if I ask really nicely Dad will come and see me play?” 

He wasn’t looking at her, still eating his coconut almond hot fudge ice cream soup. “I… maybe. If he has time.” She heard herself saying and hated the way he looked up and smiled at that. _Oh, Wirt, why do you want him in your life?_

Who was she kidding? She knew better than anyone what it was like to seek attention and approval from one’s father. Hadn’t she been the same? The only difference was her father had bestowed his affection on her unconditionally while Wirt was stripped of that right as a child. As a child he had a right to his father’s love, and she and Mort had no right to withhold that from him. 

But she couldn’t in good conscious stay with a man who thought their child was a burden. Who made their child feel like a burden. Who hurt him emotionally and… physically. She didn’t want him in Wirt’s life at all, but he was his father and Wirt loved him.

But she loved Wirt and she was not going to let her baby hurt and feel neglected or burdensome to both of his parents.

Amelia polished off her cone and wiped her hand off with a napkin before propping her elbows up on the table. “So, about this winter concert… tell me absolutely everything you know about it.” She flashed him her brightest smile and he returned it whole-heartedly before launching into excited babbles as he told her all about it and she was more than happy to listen to it all.

She wasn’t going to let him hurt. 


	5. Jonathan - November

“You’re making great progress on the trombone, Mary, keep it up! See you next week!” Jonathan grinned as he high-fived the fifth grader before closing the car door behind her.

The girl’s mother in the driver’s seat offered a wave before putting the car in drive and Jon returned it wholeheartedly, watching the sedan head out of the parking lot, then turned back to the rest of his band kids waiting to get picked up. Most had already headed home, everyone eager for the weekend now that it was Friday, spirits high despite the overcast sky. Well, high for most of the kids that remained. 

One little boy’s slumped posture reflected the gray of the mottled clouds overhead. Jon sighed as he watched Wirt Palmer pick at the blades of grass, the boy sitting cross-legged on the pavement where it met the lawn, as far from the other kids as possible while remaining in the designated “pick up” zone. While the second grader had easily made it into the band for the concert and really seemed to be flourishing music-wise, as far as confidence and opening up to his fellow musicians was concerned he was still floundering. It was true that most of the kids were older and that probably had something to do with it, but there were two third graders and one other second grader that he’d thought might help Wirt come out of his shell, but so far Wirt had no interest in talking to them. 

Another car pulled up to the curb and Jon recognized it from all the bumper stickers covering the trunk. “Dylan! Ride’s here!” he called out to one of his trumpet players, only for two boys to rush over. “Oh, is Bobby going home with you today? Does your mom know about this, Bobby? Yeah? Alright, see you next week, boys. Have a good weekend.”

Five students remained. Jon checked his watch. It was only a quarter after four, so that wasn’t so bad. So he just had Julia, a fifth grade flute player, Marco, fifth grade trombone, Clover, fourth grade clarinet, Jason, second grade french horn, and Wirt. Nodding to himself, he observed the two girls talking, both of them sitting on a bench and huddled together in their pink coats, then shifted his gaze to Marco who was engrossed in his handheld gaming device - Jon was pretty sure it was a Gameboy, but it looked different from what he remembered - with Jason watching over his shoulder. They were good kids, he thought proudly. They were all good kids in his band. Some a little rowdy, yes, but there was nothing wrong with having a big personality. Or having a little one, he surmised, glancing back at Wirt. 

Regardless of the different arrays of personality, they were all excited to be playing - even the youngest clarinet player - and most of them picked up on the music exceptionally well. If things continued as well as they had been for these past three weeks, then they’d be in great shape to play all six of the songs on his set list. Their winter concert would be a huge success, and not just because of their band. 

So that other children would feel included in the event, each grade would put on their own play or sing a song to get a chance to shine on stage. Kindergarten, first, and second grade would go first, then his band would play, followed by third and fourth, and then fifth grade would wrap things up. It would be great exposure to the performing arts for the children of Lakeville and their enthusiasm was palpable. 

“Hey, Wirt.”

Jonathan blinked out of his own reflection. Jason had moved from the bench and stood hovering by the boy near the grass. As the music teacher looked out to the parking lot, he noted Jason’s reason for getting up in the first place. His parents’ van was pulling in. 

“Oh. Um… hi, Jason Funderberker,” Wirt replied softly. 

There were two Jasons in Wirt’s class, but it never failed to amuse Jon that both were referred to by their first and last names rather than simplifying it with their last initials, like Jason F. “Do you need us to give you a ride home from school again? My parents don’t mind.”

Concern creased Wirt’s brow as he pursed his lips. Both boys looked to the Funderberkers’ van. Both Jason’s mom and dad were grinning, sun-shiney smiles lighting up their faces as they waved at the boys. Wirt seemed to recoil from the sheer amount of cheer, hunching in on himself as he shook his head. 

"No thank you,” he told him just above a whisper. “My dad’s coming to get me today.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Jason smiled, unfazed by the rejection. “Bye, Wirt. Have a good weekend.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, Mr. Whelan,” Jason said as he walked up to him, ready to be helped into his car. 

“Goodbye, Jason. See you next week. Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Funderberker,” Jonathan added when the couple beamed at him from their front seats. 

He slid the door of the van shut and stepped back as another car pulled up behind them. He called for Clover and bundled her into her ride, Julia and Marco quick to follow minutes later. Then it was only Wirt. 

Jonathan looked back at the boy as Marco’s car drove off, Wirt’s knees drawn up to his chest with his chin resting on them as he hugged his legs. It wasn’t the first time he’d been the last to be picked up, though his mom had been doing her best to be on time given her schedule, finding ways to make it to the school when work conflicted or got him a ride via his elderly babysitters or the Funderberkers. Jon had, however, yet to see Wirt’s dad pick him up.

“Hey, Wirt,” he started, walking over to him. “Mind if I sit and wait with you?”

Wirt shook his head, gaze flicking up to watch him take a seat beside him on the pavement. Jon stretched his legs out into the grass, heels sinking into the damp, spongy ground. Wirt stayed bunched up in his ball. Not a word was uttered between them for several minutes, though with each tick of the long hand of his watch, Jon noticed the tension in Wirt’s shoulders increase. 

At twenty-five minutes past the hour, Jonathan asked, “So, your dad’s picking you up today?”

Wirt nodded, lips pressed together so tightly they turned white while he continued to refrain from speaking, but slowly they eased up until he finally let them part, voice soft. “Yeah. It’s his weekend.”

“Ah.” Vaguely aware of his student’s home life thanks to brief conversations with Mrs. Palmer, he’d been under the impression that Mr. Palmer wasn’t entirely in the picture. Apparently that wasn’t completely accurate, despite the niggling doubt Jon had regarding Wirt’s claim. “His weekend? Does he get many of those?”

The second grader hesitated before answering. “‘M supposed to see him once a month.”

“Supposed to?”

“It doesn’t always… work out,” he mumbled, the words sounding rehearsed, rigid. “He’s busy a lot.”

Something twisted in Jon’s heart at the way he tried to sound flippant. Like it wasn’t a big deal when, from the tremor in his voice, it was clear that it mattered. And why wouldn’t it? Wirt was seven. For a parent, what could possibly be more important than their seven-year-old?

“Well, I’m- I’m sorry that you don’t get to see him much. I hope you have a good time with him this weekend,” he told him, drawing the boy’s attention to him. “Have you talked to him about band and how well you’re doing with the clarinet?”

Wirt perked up at that, uncurling a little from his ball. “Not yet. I was gonna tell him this weekend and play some of ‘Welcome Christmas’ for him.”

“Yeah? You like ‘Welcome Christmas?’” Jon grinned when Wirt nodded. “I bet he’ll like that. It’s got a nice clarinet section.” 

“Yeah. I’m gonna tell him about the winter concert, so he can come. He’s said before he can’t wait to see me on a stage.”

“It’s a pretty special thing,” Jonathan agreed. 

Wirt picked at a few more blades of grass, then looked up at him suddenly. “Do you think he’ll come?”

Wary with treading this line with Wirt, who clearly put a lot of stock in his dad’s opinion, Jon cleared his throat and thought carefully before speaking. “If seeing you on a stage means as much to him as you say it does, then I’m sure he’ll do his best to be there.”

A smile blossomed on his face, albeit small and shy, but the point was that it was there and that was rare for the child that liked nothing more than to melt into the background and go unnoticed. “I think so, too.”

For the sake of that little glimmer of hope in the boy’s eyes, Jon hoped Mr. Palmer would prove to be worthy of their faith. “So,” he changed the subject abruptly to distract Wirt, “what else do you like to do besides play the clarinet, Wirt? I see you reading a lot at recess. You like reading?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What kind of books?”

“All kinds.” Wirt tugged on the sleeves of his windbreaker as he fidgeted. “Mom reads books that are stories with me. We just finished ‘The Hobbit.’ But um… I like to read books that aren’t stories, too.”

"What are those books usually about?” Jon smiled easily, pleased to see him opening up a little. 

“Different things. Most of them are books Dad left behind, like his architecture books. He also has science ones and math ones and ones about space. I’m reading one about stars and planets now. It’s called… astrolology? Astronomally?”

“Astronomy? Wow, that’s pretty complex stuff.” Jon’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “And you understand it?”

Wirt shrugged. “Not really. Only sometimes. I try to. I try really hard. My dad’s really smart and I want to be smart like him, so I try to read all his books.”

“What about your mom? Is she not as smart?”

“No, she is. It’s a different kind of smart though,” he replied matter-of-factly and Jon had to marvel at the child’s insight.

“I see. Well, from what I can see, you are definitely well on your way to being exceptionally smart, Wirt. Reading a lot - about all kinds of things - is really great. It opens your mind.” Jon’s grin grew as Wirt nodded with wide-eyed understanding. 

The rumble of an engine drew both of their attention to the parking lot, a car pulling into the driveway. Wirt’s eyes lit up and he scrambled to his feet, Jonathan following suit at a much slower rate, ready to catch a glimpse of the man that seemed so important to his student. By the time he was standing, however, the car had gotten close enough for him to recognize. It belonged to Wirt’s elderly babysitters, Mrs. and Mrs. Daniels. 

Jon looked to Wirt. The boy’s face had fallen, his grip on his backpack and clarinet case going slack. His dark eyes had dimmed, shoulders slumped, acceptance a heavy weight to bear. A lump grew in Jon’s throat and he glanced away to stride over to the hatchback as it pulled up to the curb. 

The elderly woman rolled down the window, leaning over the empty passenger seat to smile and greet him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Whelan. Looks like I got here just in time! I have a feeling it’s going to rain any minute and I’m never wrong when I get one of those feelings.”

Jonathan glanced up towards the sky. “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Daniels,” he replied, taking in the darkening clouds before focusing on her with a polite smile. “Um… Wirt was telling me that his dad is supposed to pick him today, is that not right?”

Mrs. Daniels released a heavy sigh. “No, that’s right. The simpleton forgot and Amelia’s in the middle of a busy shift, so she asked me to fetch him. Come on, Wirt! Don’t drag your feet!” She looked past him to call out to the second grader. “Miss Margaret’s just put some cookies in the oven and I bet they’ll be cool enough when we get there for you to sneak a few!” 

Wirt shuffled over quietly, scuffing his sneakers against the sidewalk. “Where’s my dad?” he asked softly.

“Oh, he’s running a bit late, so you’re going to wait at our house for him, that sound alright to you? It’ll be much warmer in our house and that way we don’t have to make Mr. Whelan wait and let him head to his own home and get on with his weekend,” she replied.

Wirt stiffened, head bowed. “Sorry, Mr. Whelan.”

“It’s no trouble waiting with him,” Jonathan hastened to assure her and Wirt’s dull gaze shifted to stare at him. “I mean, I’m happy to do it for any of my students. It comes with the job.”

He helped Wirt open the door to the backseat, setting his backpack and instrument on the floor while he climbed in and buckled up. Wirt kept his head turned down, the news that his dad was only running late and would likely pick him up from the Daniels’s house did nothing to perk him up. Jon exchanged a quick glance with the older woman before moving to shut the door. 

“See you next week, Wirt. Keep up with the clarinet practice, you’re making great progress.” He waited a beat, but Wirt did nothing but nod. “Okay. Bye, Wirt. Bye, Mrs. Daniels.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Whelan. Get home safe before it really starts pouring.”

“Will do.” He gave a salute and closed the door. 

Just as the hatchback turned out of the parking lot, it started to rain. 

-0-

When Jonathan got home, he found a message from his mom waiting for him on the answering machine. He shucked off his raincoat and changed into his old college sweatshirt and jeans before listening to it. It was the standard: “just checking in on you, Jono,” that came with being an only child entering his thirties. If he didn’t live an hour away from his parents, he was certain that she’d be at his doorstep every few days with tupperware containers full of food for him. 

Smiling to himself, he put together a salami and cheese sandwich before calling her back. He took the sandwich and the landline into the small living room, having grown used to eating all of his meals on the couch rather than in the cramped kitchen slash dining room at the old table and chair set he’d picked up at a yard sale back when he got his first apartment. He’d yet to bother with new furnishings, everything mismatched, picked up along the way.

Jon stepped over a stack of instrument cases, plate balanced in one hand and phone cradled in the other. Instruments of all sorts littered the living room, most in their cases, but some sat out like his pair of maracas that were perched on the shelving unit he had pressed against the wall. He sat back against his worn, plaid couch and dialed home.

It was answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mom,” he greeted with a grin. “It’s me.”

“Jono, oh I’m so glad you called,” his mother cooed. “This is perfect timing, really, and wouldn’t you know I was just thinking of you?”

Jonathan took a bite from his sandwich as he listened to her, nodding and humming as she carried on with whatever she’d felt warranted a phone call to him, a category that held many items and resulted in many phone conversations.

He didn’t mind. Only just entering his third month as an official resident of Lakeville, November upon the slow-paced, easy-going town already, he found he was still trying to get acclimated. He’d made a few friends, of course, finding a good one in the P.E. teacher, Ross Denham, and had become rather close with the two fifth grade teachers and one of the third grade teachers, but they were work friends. Not that there was anything wrong with work friends, no. He was exceptionally glad to have found co-workers that he could trust and confide in and go out for the occasional lunch with or join for bowling nights. It was just… he wished he’d been able to meet some people outside of work. Though, he supposed that work was where one met people.

After all, where else would he meet people?

It was one of the few downsides to picking up and moving to a new city with no connections. Weekends were lonely. When phone calls with his parents ended, silence reigned in his little bungalow. Never for long though. While some people might have found solace in silence, Jonathan craved background noise. He turned the television on, his stereo, anything to drown out the lack of life in his home. 

Maybe he should invest in a pet. He did always like dogs. A dog would get lonely though, too, wouldn’t they? A cat might be better. Or a goldfish. 

Jon puttered around his little house, restless as the rain poured down. Rainy weather always made him restless. When the weather was nice he had no problems lounging about and zoning out in front of the television or playing video games, but once it started raining he needed to be out and about. Doing something. 

It didn’t help that he had no company to distract himself with either. It would be another Friday night vegging out on his couch alone. Jon’s brow furrowed as he listened to the rain pitter-pattering against the roof, fingers playing along to nature’s rhythm on his guitar. Who said he had to spend his Friday night inside and alone? Sure it was raining and sure he still knew a precious few amount of people, but he just wanted to be around people, around their background noise. He could do that. There was absolutely no reason why he couldn’t. 

Staying in his sweatshirt and jeans, Jonathan grabbed his raincoat and the keys to his van, wallet shoved in his back pocket with his cellphone as he headed out. For a while he just drove around, familiarizing himself with downtown Lakeville. There were several restaurants and a few bars, but he wasn’t feeling the bar scene. Not to mention that it was barely seven o’clock.

His gaze fell upon the illuminated sign of one of the town’s diners. Holloway’s. He’d passed by it on several occasions, always meaning to pop in for some of that small town, homey, slice of cherry pie feeling. Without hesitation, he pulled into the parking lot. 

It was a quaint diner, pretty much what one would expect from Hollywood’s portrayal of a vintage diner, though he supposed they had to get their inspiration from somewhere. Jon shrugged off his raincoat as he glanced around. A peach and mint color scheme mixed well together, the same shades that lit up the sign. Plump, peach-colored cushioned booths lined the windows in the front on either side of the front door, a line of matching barstools over at the counter. Several tables with four chairs to each were smattered across the mint and peach tiled floor, all of them empty tonight in favor of the booths and counter seats. 

A light buzz and hum of conversation enveloped him, soft music piped in from the speakers overhead. Not quite the old-timey jukebox vibe, but it made him smile nonetheless. His gaze fell upon the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign propped up by the front door, so he draped his coat over one arm and continued his observations until a young waitress carrying a pot of coffee passed him by. 

“You can ignore the sign, we’re not that busy tonight,” she told him in a friendly, Disney-princess-esque voice that had him smiling. “Feel free to sit wherever you like and someone will be with you in a just a moment!”

“Thanks.” He raised his hand in a half-wave, debating between taking a seat at the counter since it was only him, or going for one of the booths. 

Since it really wasn’t all that crowded and there were plenty of seats for larger parties to choose from if they came in, Jonathan chose a corner booth nestled where the wall of windows met a wall of photographs and memorabilia. His gaze roved over the pictures as he laid his raincoat on the bench beside him, before he had to turn his back on them, more inclined to face the diner in its entirety than the decorated wall. 

It appeared that Holloway was a real person, or persons, as one of the photographs depicted a newly constructed Holloway’s diner with two young men and a woman standing before it sporting smiles. A placard beside the image relayed the names of a Rod, Ernest, and Ruby Holloway and the year 1953 stamped beneath them. While some of the tiles on the floor were chipped, the tables scuffed and the booth cushions worn, for a place that had been around for over fifty years, it was in pretty good shape. Whoever owned it now, whether it was still a Holloway or not, was doing well to maintain the diner. 

Jon was drawn from his reverie by footfalls and movement out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you for waiting and welcome to Holloway’s- Mr. Whelan?” As he turned his head to greet his waitress, his eyes widened in surprise to find the mother of one of his students standing before him with a baffled expression of her own. 

“Mrs. Palmer,” he acknowledged, expression warming. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She blinked twice, then straightened her shoulders, a menu resting in the crook of her elbow and a bundle of silverware wrapped in a napkin clutched in her other hand that she quickly set down for him. “I’m sorry, here. I just didn’t expect to see you here. I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to check it out since I moved here,” Jonathan admitted with a soft laugh. “I just happen to be one of the world’s biggest procrastinators, but the rain gave me a good excuse to come out.”

“The rain?” Mrs. Palmer’s - though her nametag read “Amy,” he noted - lips quirked up in amusement and she handed him the laminated menu next. “Funny, most people would say the rain’s a good excuse to stay inside.”

Jonathan shrugged. “What can I say? I march to the beat of my own drum.” For effect, he drummed his fingers against the menu, smile turning towards sheepish. “Music teacher humor.”

Amy Palmer grinned. “I figured as much. Well, it’s good to see you. If you couldn’t already tell, I’ll be your waitress this evening, so if you need anything, just catch my eye and wave me over. Would you like something to warm you up? Cup of coffee, tea, hot chocolate?”

“Why not? I’m in a small town diner in a small town, might as well have the full diner experience. I’ll have a coffee. And a water.”

“Alright. One coffee and water coming right up. Creamer’s on the table here and so’s the sugar, so you can have it to your liking. I’ll give you a moment to look over the menu and I’ll be back with your drinks in a flash.” With that said, she turned and headed for the counter.

As prepared for small town living as he’d thought he’d been, Jonathan had to admit it was interesting seeing the parent of one of his students at her place of employment. He certainly hadn’t pictured Mrs. Palmer working as a waitress at a diner, though he did suppose that explained the inconsistent hours. She always looked so put together when he saw her though, definitely not the way she did now, not that she looked bad, of course not. Just tired. Her hair was tucked up in a drooping ponytail, several curls out of place and a pencil nestled behind her ear.  

He couldn’t exactly blame her for being tired if she’d been working all afternoon. He didn’t even know if this was her only job. Well, of course he didn’t. He didn’t know much about her at all, or any of his students’ parents because that would be ridiculous. 

Shaking his head, Jonathan opened the menu and skimmed the contents, only for his eyes to widen almost immediately as he glimpsed a note on the first page. “You serve breakfast all day?” he asked to be certain when Amy Palmer returned with his water and coffee.

Her lips pursed against her amused smile as she took in his awed expression. “We do indeed. What kind of diner would we be if people couldn’t order pancakes at seven in the morning and seven at night?”

“Well, I think you have just become my favorite diner for that reason alone. Now, I have to ask you something else and it’s very important, it might almost be impossible to answer, actually,” he told her with the most serious expression he could muster. “Which would you recommend: the banana bread French toast or the Belgian waffle topped with strawberries?”

“Ooh, that is a tough one.” Amy tapped the eraser of her pencil against her cheek as she considered the question. “You know, I’m gonna have to go with the banana bread French toast since that’s my son’s favorite. I trust his judgment better than anyone’s.”

“Well then, I’m going to have to try them if Wirt’s such a fan,” he decided. 

“Excellent choice.” She scribbled down the order in the notepad she pulled from her apron pocket. “Would you like bacon or sausage or both?”

“Bacon, please.”

“And a side of fruit or breakfast potatoes?”

“I should probably go with the fruit… but what the heck. I’ve got fruit at home, I certainly don’t have breakfast potatoes.”

Amy huffed out a soft laugh as she marked that down. “Can’t argue with that logic. Anything else I can get for you?”

“Are you kidding, that’s just my appetizer,” he joked as he closed the menu and handed it to her. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Palmer.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Whelan. I’ll be out with your order in a few minutes.” Tucking her pencil back behind her ear, she spun on her heel with a sunny smile and headed for another table in her section to check on their plates. 

Jonathan couldn’t help his own little smile, setting to fix his coffee. He poured in two cups of creamer and two packets of sugar, stirring with the little red straw that accompanied it. This was a good decision, he mused as he sat back in the squeaky booth. He didn’t mind going out alone, feeling less isolated and lonely when he was surrounded by people and the chatter of day-to-day lives. It was certainly preferable to being alone in his house, with little to occupy his mind. 

He rather enjoyed people-watching, and could appreciate the simple pleasure and escape it provided. Jon wondered if Wirt did as well, his student coming to mind as the boy’s mother crossed his field of vision on her way to the kitchen. People-watching certainly seemed to be something the child occupied his time with, content to be in the background, unnoticed in favor of watching life happen around him. Rather introspective for a second grader, but he supposed one was never too young to become introspective. 

He wondered if Wirt’s father ever came to pick him up.

Unsure if it was too forward or considered “prying” if he asked, Jonathan fidgeted in his seat, fiddling with his bundle of silverware and sipping at his coffee as he mentally debated what was considered appropriate. By the time Amy Palmer returned to his table with a refill, he’d decided that it couldn’t hurt to ask. He was concerned about his students’ welfare, and picturing the way Wirt’s face fell at the sight of his babysitter’s car just didn’t sit well with him. 

“Ah, thank you,” he managed as she took his mug and filled it.

“No problem. Want me to leave the carafe for you? It’s late enough that I don’t think we need all four.” She nodded towards the coffee maker by the counter. 

He shook his head. “No, no, I’m good thanks. But uh- Mrs. Palmer, I was just… wondering if I could ask you something about Wirt?”

Her eyes widened, smile fading as worry momentarily lined her eyes. “He’s not- he’s not causing any trouble or anything is he-?”

“No, absolutely not. He’s a wonderful asset to the class- and the band. Yeah, no. It’s just… he was telling me while he was waiting to get picked up about how it was his dad’s weekend with him and… well, Mrs. Daniels showed up instead and I was only wondering if his dad did come to get him.” Jon cleared his throat, appearing a bit abashed at having blatantly asked. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want- I’m not trying to pry. It’s just he seemed to really be looking forward to it and asking him if he’d come to the winter concert.”

The woman’s unquestionable exhaustion became clear as her cheerful mask slipped and teeth worried her lower lip that had long-since lost its lipstick to the hours of the day. “No, it’s fine. I appreciate your concern for him, Mr. Whelan.” Her smile was weak, but it was there and genuine. “Yes, his father did pick him up from the Daniels’ about an hour ago. They’re probably in Milton by now- that’s where he lives. Currently, at least.”

“Oh.” Relief swelled within him and Jon’s lips quirked up. “Well, that’s not that far.”

“Yeah, but you’d think he was in Australia with how often Wirt sees him. And it’s only gonna get worse,” she sighed.

“How so?” he asked, unable to help being curious as his brow furrowed in concern.

“He’s moving to New York at the end of the month. He got a job there that he’s been looking into for some time, but never went for since I didn’t want to move to New York City. Long story. Anyway, so instead of being only half an hour away, he’ll be five hours away, which will be interesting to say the least.” Amy scrunched her forehead and shook her head. “Sorry, it’s not like you asked about the details.”

“Well, I kinda did,” he put in with a small smile. “It’s okay. I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds like things are about to get pretty stressful.”

She huffed out a laugh and waved it off. “No more than usual, trust me.”

“Well, if you ever need someone to talk to- or help with getting Wirt rides home from school, then I’m happy to help. Not that you know me very well and of course I understand if you don’t take me up on this, I mean we’ve hardly spoken and I’m sure you have other friends to rely on, not to mention the Daniels’ and I’m not even sure how appropriate it is to fraternize with my students’ parents outside of school-” Jonathan waved his hand in the air as he went on, shaking his head as he tried in vain to find a place to stop his rambling.

Amelia seemed to find one for him. “Fraternize?” She grinned broadly, hand going to her hip. “Just what do you expect us to be talking about, Mr. Whelan, that would warrant the use of a word such as fraternize? I didn’t think whining about one’s divorce fell into that category.”

“I… I don’t know. It’s just… you know, the kind of word you’d expect to find in the employee handbook.” Jon smiled weakly. “No fraternization with clients and all that.”

Amy laughed. “Okay, no fraternizing then. But if you make Holloway’s a regular haunt for yourself, then you can’t hold it against me if we do talk from time to time. As your friendly, neighborhood, apple pie waitress, chatting up customers is an important part of my job.”

Jonathan placed his hand over his heart. “Far be it from me to prevent you from doing your job. Speaking of which, I think table three over there wants your attention.”

He nodded in their direction and Amy glanced over her shoulder at the couple eyeing her. “That’s table eleven, actually.” She made sure to shoot a smile their way before turning her attention back to Jon.

“Oh? What table am I?” 

“You’re table eight. Four booths on each side of the front door, and then we move in from there.” Amy gestured to the booths against the windows. 

Jon lifted his coffee cup in mock salute. “Then I claim table eight as my own. I will dutifully attempt to sit here each time I visit this establishment.”

“You might have to fight Ol’ Mr. Bowden on Thursdays and every other Monday then,” she informed him seriously. “This is his favorite seat and has been for the last thirty-five years.”

“I will dutifully sit here each time I visit this establishment except for Thursdays and every other Monday,” he corrected, pleased when she laughed. “I don’t know if I can take Ol’ Mr. Bowden down. I’ll have to look for a back-up booth.”

“I can personally recommend any of the tables in my section. I cover seven through thirteen.”

“Lucky number thirteen.” Jon grinned. “I’ll take it. Now, I’ll stop holding you up with my idle chatter and let you get back to table number three there.” He waved at them when their staring started anew. 

“Table eleven,” Amy reminded him with a huff, rolling her eyes as she turned her back on him and hurried to help the couple. 

When she returned with his breakfast for dinner, she added, “Table thirteen is also my son’s favorite table, so I think that’s a great choice for back-up.”

After taking a bite of the banana bread French toast, Jon was sold on table thirteen, as Wirt clearly was an excellent judge when it came to things in this diner. The food was delicious, and the company even better.

This beat staying home alone by a landslide.


	6. Amy - November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I know I'm thankful to all of you for reading my fics and taking the time to comment or leave kudos or simply just enjoy what I've written, so thank you.

“Wirt! Wirt, sweetheart, come on! It’s time to go!” Amy hollered, from her bedroom, frantically picking through her jewelry box in search of the faux-diamond drop earring to match the one dangling from her ear.

She didn’t have that much jewelry, how was it that she couldn’t find one stupid earring? 

Dressed in black slacks and her cashmere, red turtleneck sweater, she’d decided to forgo a dress for dressing up and went with something a bit more comfortable for her. It was Thanksgiving with her family, who did she have to impress? Everyone, actually, she supposed. This was the first Thanksgiving since the divorce. The first family gathering without Mort. No matter how busy her ex had been with work or his own things, he always came to her family’s gatherings. He’d been part of them since they were sixteen. Over ten years’ worth of holidays they’d shared together.

Amelia took a moment to breathe, calming the sudden throbbing of her heart. She could do this. This was her family - her mother, her brothers. They were all on her side. Well, for the most part. And she didn’t miss Mort. Not one bit. Not a single, solitary bit. With a shaky sigh, she resumed rifling through her jewelry box. She was fine. She looked fine. Some make-up, curled hair, and a nice necklace and earrings would make her look just fine. If only she could find the other earring. 

She pulled out the one she was wearing and exchanged it for the first matching pair she found, rolling her eyes as she settled for two simple pearls and kept the long-chained necklace with the dark stone broach that dangled just above her naval. Pulling on her black flats, she hurried out of her bedroom, nearly missing her purse on the bed. 

“Wirt!” she called again, only to pause as she entered the living room to find him sitting on their worn couch with Secret Bear, waiting for her

He was already dressed in his khaki pants and the dark brown sweater with the beige and red argyle print across the chest they’d decided on after his shower that morning, the white collar of his shirt poking out beneath the collar of his sweater. His hands were folded primly in his lap as he looked to her, his hair was even combed to one side. It wasn’t combed _well_ , but her seven-year-old had clearly tried. He was pretty much ready to go, all except for…

“Oh, Wirt, your shoes don’t match,” she sighed, crossing the room to him in a few quick strides and knelt down to unlace them and tug them both off. Neither of them went with his outfit either. “Where are your brown boat shoes?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, hiding his mouth in Secret Bear’s fur as he watched her. 

She groaned, tossing aside the gray sneaker and the navy blue and white one before straightening, hurrying into her son’s bedroom. It was a mess. “You’re cleaning your room when we get back, mister. This is unacceptable.” Books and blocks and sheet music littered the floor. She dropped down and checked under his bed, feeling Wirt’s presence behind her as he hovered in the doorway. 

“I looked there.”

“Well, I’m just checking again.” With a huff, she sat up and scanned the room. Oh god, she didn’t even know where to start. “Alright. Alright, do you know where your other white and blue sneaker is?”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I- I thought… I thought I put them both on…”

“No. Those were two very different shoes, Wirt. I’m not letting you out of the house in two different pairs of shoes. God, what would Jan think?” She shook her head and pushed up to go to his closet, sliding it open to dig around under the piles of clothes. Most of the stuff didn’t even fit him anymore. She needed to remember to put together a donate pile and get it ready before Christmas. “Alright, here’s one brown shoe. Let’s find the other one.” 

She tossed the one she found over her shoulder and heard Wirt shuffle across the floor in his socks to pick it up. The other one was stuffed inside a plastic toolbox. Of course her son inherited her penchant for losing everything they owned. Things were going to be a mess between the two of them. Hopefully she could wean Wirt from this bad habit of messy room and scatterbrained memory.

With the shoe in hand, she knelt beside Wirt as he sat on the floor, carefully tying his shoe with slow, big loops, brow furrowed in concentration. Amy shoved his other shoe on and did it up before he finished with the one he was working on. She helped him stand up, taking his hand as she led him to the garage. He stumbled over his own feet, tugging a little on her hand as he made a few soft sounds, so she lessened her grip on him. 

“Come on, Wirt. We have to go now.”

She bundled him up in his seat, his lip quivering as he stared at her with wide eyes. “Mom-” he started, but he bit back whatever it was he wanted to say as she buckled him in. 

“You can tell me whatever it is on the way to Grandma’s, sweetie.” She closed the door and went around to the driver’s side.

As she slid into the driver’s seat, Wirt wriggled frantically in his own, tugging on the part of the safety restraint that crossed his chest. “But Mom- I- Mom, I left-”

“Wirt, is whatever this is something you really need to get upset about?” Amy asked, taking her keys from her purse. 

“I- no, but I- you didn’t let me- I just want- I want- _Mom_ -”

“Wirt, breathe, kiddo. Whatever it is, it’s fine. I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just don’t want to be late getting to Grandma’s,” she explained, guilt tearing into her as she heard the hitching in his breath. She couldn’t start the car knowing he was panicking in the backseat so she lowered the keys to her lap. “Sweetheart…” she sighed, then twisted around to look at him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth despite the lipstick she had on as she watched his eyes well up, tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“You- you didn’t- you didn’t let me get Secret Bear,” he whispered, as if it was some sort of secret shame. “I want her.”

Secret Bear. Right. Amy inhaled sharply, noting the bear’s absence. While Wirt had grown accustomed to leaving her behind while he went to school, if he had it in his mind that he was taking her with him somewhere, then that couldn’t just be changed. She mentally kicked herself for forgetting the Care Bear and unbuckled her seatbelt. 

“Sorry, Wirt. I’ll go get her. She still on the couch?” She waited for him to nod, then hurried from the car and back inside the house. 

He was still sniffling when she returned, but he held the tears at bay. He reached for the hand-stitched bear when she passed her over to him and he tenderly stroked the soft, orange fur. When he flicked his gaze back up at her, she offered him a reassuring smile.

“Better?” He nodded again. “Ready to go to Grandma’s?”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay.” Amy exhaled heavily, tugging her seatbelt back on and started the car, easing out of the garage and down the driveway. It wouldn’t be the first time she was late to her mother’s, and she was willing to bet that it wouldn’t be the last either. 

-0-

Amelia Kallis had grown up in Connecticut, her shift into Amelia Palmer occurring almost simultaneously with the move to Massachusetts. Fresh start, fresh life. She’d been sick of Connecticut. She was still sick of it. 

A fine enough state on it’s own, she’d hated how coming home always made her feel like Amelia Kallis instead of Amelia Palmer. Now she didn’t feel like either. Amelia Kallis was the angry teenager who lost the person she loved most in the world and Amelia Palmer was the wife of architect Mort Palmer and mother of Wirt Palmer. Who was she now? Legally still Amelia Palmer, but that name didn’t belong to her. Not anymore. 

She pulled up to the home of her adolescent years - the two-story colonial with the chipped, yellow siding unchanged. The window that belonged to the room that had once been her bedroom was right above the sloped roof of the attached garage. She and Mort had spent countless nights talking about everything and nothing as they stared at the stars. They’d spread her comforter out over the shingles and lie in each other’s arms on slow, summer nights. It was the only good memory of this place. Mort. 

Having been born and raised in New Haven, her mother had packed them up and moved to Middletown a year after her father’s death. She’d been fourteen when he died, her brothers eleven and four. As the oldest, she’d been expected to keep it together, to be the strong one, to help her mother through her trying times. 

Her mother had become stone cold and hard, shut herself down and Amelia Kallis had hated her for it. Amelia Palmer tried to forget that hate. 

Turning off the engine, she flashed Wirt a smile through the rearview mirror. “We’re here. Ready to see Grandma and Uncle Drew?”

Despite not leaving right when she’d wanted to, they’d made good time and had still beaten her other brother and his family and that’s what counted. God forbid Janice arrive before her. As she and Wirt made their way up the drive, the front door flew open, revealing her baby brother, all messy hair and bright eyes as he threw his arms out.

“Amy!”

“Andy!” she teased, her heart feeling much lighter as he rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed to her car.

“Okay, no. You get back in the car and drive home, Amelia. I’ve had enough of you. But not this guy!” Andrew Kallis hopped down the front porch, the nineteen-year-old sporting a grin a mile wide for her son as he crouched down in front of him. “I’m keeping this guy. Hey, Wirt! What’s up, my little man? High five!” 

Wirt’s answering smile was shy as he tucked Secret Bear under one arm and hesitantly smacked his palm to Drew’s. “High five.”

“Yeah!” Drew ruffled his hair, then straightened and held his arms out to Amy for a hug. “You got here just in time. Mom’s about to have an absolute conniption about her cornbread casserole.”

Amy wrinkled her nose. “Oh god, I thought you and Jojo burned that recipe years ago.”

“We did. Apparently she had a dream like… a week ago and supposedly remembered everything from the list, so she wrote it down, but of course now that she’s looking at it, it’s not quite right.” Her youngest brother snorted and shook his head, then placed his hand at the small of her back and nudged her towards the front porch. “Please pretend to help her and secretly stuff the stuffing down the drain? I already called Joe and told him to pick up the Pepperidge Farm stuff from a box on his way here so we’re covered.”

“How do you survive without either of us?” Amy started up the steps.

“I don’t.” Drew turned his attention back to Wirt, grabbing him around the middle and hoisting him up to sit on his shoulders. “All aboard the Uncle Drew Express! Destination: Unknown.”

“Uncle Drew, our destination’s inside the house,” Wirt told him.

“Destination: inside the house!” he corrected, then bounced his shoulders to make the seven-year-old squeal and clutch to his uncle and Care Bear tightly as he ran in a circle, then past Amy and through the front door, straight for the kitchen. “Hey, Grandma! Look who’s here!”

“Drew, put him down. You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

Amelia closed the door behind her, the inside of the colonial just as yellow as the outside. She’d made sure that when she and Mort had been looking at houses that there wouldn’t be a drop of yellow anywhere in or on the house. Now she found she kind of missed it. 

“Amelia? Is that you?” Her mother’s voice rasped from the kitchen.

“Yeah, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving,” she called out as she headed in that direction, pressing against the wall as Drew scampered back out of the kitchen with Wirt still on his shoulders, both of their mouths stuffed with marshmallows. “Hope you saved some for me.”

“Nope. Ate them all.” Drew winked, then continued into the living room to deposit Wirt and Secret Bear on the couch. 

“You’re the worst influence.”

“I think you mean best.” 

Choosing to follow her brother for the moment, she took in the familiar furniture, everything the same as it always was. Everything except for her little brother’s hair that is. “Did you get in a fight with one of those flocking machines they have at the Christmas tree lots?”

“Haha. You know, that’s one I haven’t heard before. I’ve gotten ‘did you lose a fight with a snow cone machine’ and ‘did a bunch of birds-’”

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t have to finish that sentence.” She waved it away, taking in the cropped cut of Drew’s hair. The naturally dark brown strands were all spiked up, his angled bangs from their family’s genetic widow’s peak sheared off completely, the tips of his hair frosted white. “The nineties are calling. They want their bad taste back.”

“Shut up. I think it looks awesome.” Drew scraped his palm over the gelled monstrosity protectively. “And so does Caz.”

“Drew, Caz is lying to your face.” Her baby brother’s boyfriend of two and a half years had probably taken one look at his hair, complimented it, then - as straight-faced as possible - excused himself to another room and laughed and laughed.

“I- um… _I_ like your hair, Uncle Drew.” Wirt fiddled with Secret Bear, timid as he glanced up at them. 

“Thanks, little man.” Drew made a face at Amy. “At least your son has taste.”

“I’m not letting you near him as a teenager. You are not destroying his hair or giving him tattoos until he’s over eighteen.”

Drew grinned. “Come on. What kind of super fun uncle would I be if I did that?”

“Amelia!”

They both glanced towards the kitchen as their mother’s voice called for her. “Mother beckons.” Drew dropped his voice ominously. 

She rolled her eyes at him, but addressed her mom. “Coming!” she hollered back, then lowered her voice for Drew’s benefit. “So is Caz here?”

“Yeah. He’s in my room, on the phone with his family. Wishing them a happy Thanksgiving and all that.” Drew waved it off like it was nothing. “Pretty sure they’re trying to negotiate us going to stay with them for Christmas, which obviously isn’t happening.”

“Drew, you’ve got to share holidays. Caz has family, too,” Amy reminded him. 

“I know that,” he scoffed, hands going to his hips - jean-clad and paired with a black v-neck, long-sleeved thermal shirt, not dressed up in the slightest - “I just don’t want to go to Florida this year. That’s all.”

“Who wouldn’t want to leave Connecticut to spend Christmas in Florida?” she forced a laugh, chest tight because she knew why. He’d never come out and say it, but it was because of her. First Thanksgiving without Mort. First Christmas. She pursed her lips, watching Drew’s gaze drift to Wirt, her son effectively distracted by the parade playing on TV. Or pretending to be. 

He shrugged, his bratty grin back on his face. “Are you kidding? Florida sucks. It’s all old people and Disney World. And there’s no snow. What’s up with that? It’s weird.”

“Have you finally accepted the truth about your hair, dear?”

Amy’s laugh was more genuine as Drew’s face fell, then she turned to greet his boyfriend. “Hi, Caz. Good to see you.”

The dark-skinned man smiled, a touch on the shy side as he tended to be with their family, and shook her hand, though it definitely shone in his eyes through thick-framed glasses. “Hi, Amy. Happy Thanksgiving. How...” His smile turned sympathetic. “How’ve things been?”

“As good as they can be. I mean, given the situation,” she replied, no different from how she’d responded when she’d seen him that summer, Drew deigning to stay with her for his break from school to help her with Wirt, Cassius making frequent trips out to them throughout. 

“Good. That’s good.” He played along, both recognizing the lie for what it was.

It wasn’t something she could talk about with nineteen-year-olds, ten years her juniors. As much as she loved Drew and as patient and soft as Caz was, they didn’t know divorce. Divorce wasn’t a concept they needed to worry about. They were enjoying the simple pleasures young, blossoming love had to offer them and she couldn’t darken that with the taint of her failed relationship when she’d been nineteen once and in love and invincible. 

So she forced a smile and gave him a pat on the shoulder, stepping into her big sister role as easily as she stepped into a pair of shoes. She could be daughter and sister today. Daughter and sister rather than ex-wife and single mother. Her gaze flicked to Wirt, then widened when she noticed his eyes on her, too solemn for seven.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to pop into the kitchen and give Grandma some help,” she told him. “Want to stay out here and finish watching the parade with Uncle Drew and Caz?”

Wirt nodded, tucking Secret Bear securely on his lap, and jumped a little when Drew flopped onto the cushions beside him. “Excellent choice, little man! We’ve got some serious catching up to do. me and Uncle Caz want to hear all about the trials and tribulations of second grade.”

“Tribulations?” Wirt’s brow furrowed as he sounded out the word.

“Your troubles,” Caz explained to him gently as he sat down on Wirt’s other side. “Tribulation is another word for trouble or burden.”

Wirt’s eyes widened with understanding. “Oh.”

Leaving the three of them to it, Amelia slipped out of the room and into the kitchen, dropping her purse off on the counter. Surrounded by at least seven different dishes in different stages of preparation, Zoe Kallis diligently focused on her task as kitchen master and coordinator. The subtle smell of roasted herbs that permeated the rest of the house was stronger in here, the marinated turkey baking away in the oven. Two piles of potatoes were by the sink, sweet and russet, waiting to be peeled while Zoe snapped the ends of freshly washed green beans for her green bean casserole. The cornbread monstrosity sat innocently enough in its pot on the stove. 

“Hi Mom.” Amy waited for her mother to pause before pressing a kiss to her weathered cheek, too weathered for someone only fifty-three. 

“Amelia.” She wiped the dampness from her hands on her apron, turning to look her over. “You look terrible,” she said bluntly. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

So much for a little makeup and hairspray to doll herself up with. Amy sighed. “I sleep well enough. I’m fine.”

Zoe clucked her tongue, but said nothing, returning to snapping her green beans. “Peel the potatoes for me, Amelia.”

“Yes, Mom.”

As she rolled up her sleeves and nabbed a spare apron from the drawer by the oven, Amy reflected on how that went about as well as she could’ve hoped. Her mother had only said one thing regarding her divorce, only one, and it was the only thing she ever needed to say. 

_“Marriage isn’t easy, Amelia. I thought your father and I taught you better than to run when things get hard.”_

That was it. That was the only thing she had to say. Amy ran a russet potato under the water by the sink, then dragged the peeler over the skin, flicking each curl into the garbage bin at by her feet. Comments on how haggard she looked, how quiet Wirt was, how strained she sounded, how she hadn’t seemed so tired last year were tossed about here and there, but her husband’s absence had yet to be touched upon since she’d called her mother to tell her. 

Still, she could accept the comments if it meant not feeling the need to defend herself and the choice she’d made. It hadn’t been easy. She wasn’t running. If anything Mort had run, like the coward he was. When faced with his flaws that’s all he ever did. 

The two women worked in silence, the only sounds coming from the living room were those of Drew’s commentary regarding the dance routines and float songs. At least until her other brother arrived and conspired with Caz to change the channel to football. Then Drew’s commentary was all about how nice everyone’s butt looked in football pants. 

And of course with her other brother came…

“Andrew Kallis, watch your mouth. There are children present! Hi, Zoe. Hello, Amelia. Sorry we’re late.”

Janice Kallis. Her sister-in-law. Who was roughly the size of a small planet. Amy’s gut churned as she turned to take in the sight of her brother’s very pregnant wife, baby Meaghan cradled in one of her arms and a plastic bag clutched tightly in her free hand. With a pacifier in her mouth, the little girl with auburn curls pulled back in a pretty little white bow stared with wide eyes at her new surroundings while Janice dropped the bag on the counter. 

Immediately Zoe dropped whatever she was doing. “Let me see my granddaughter.”

“She’s all yours.” Janice handed her over with an over exaggerated groan - wait until she had to carry a seven-year-old, an eighteen-month-old would seem like a dream after that - and rubbed the small of her back once she was free of her burden. “I swear, Joe has to be feeding her ball bearings for breakfast or something. I don’t remember Cody being _that_ heavy.”

“You weren’t eight months pregnant when you carried Cody,” Zoe pointed out, but her eyes were only for Meaghan. “Have you picked a name yet?”

“Isaiah for a boy. Undecided on the girl’s name still. I’m pushing for Ingrid, but Joe’s insisting on something cute. I don’t understand what he means by that at all. We’re naming a person, not a Pomeranian. The name doesn’t have to be ‘cute.’ Right, Amy?” 

Amy wiped her hands off with a paper towel. “Are you saying Meaghan and Cody aren’t cute names?”

“I’m saying they’re sensible names. Your brother wants to name our potential future daughter something like Rosie or Lucy or Lily or Katie.” Jan waved off the names.

Amy’s lips couldn’t help quirking up. “I’m getting the feeling that you don’t like names ending in y or i and e.”

“Not for girls, no. They’re ghastly names. Girls deserve good, solid names,” Jan replied, then pointed at her. “And yours doesn’t count. Yours is fine because your actual name is Amelia.”

“I still prefer ‘Amy.’”

Her mother clucked again. “Amelia’s a perfectly good name. Why change it?”

“I didn’t change it, Mother. It’s just a nickname.” She rolled her eyes, returning to peeling the rest of the potatoes. 

“Oh, let me help with that, Amy. You’re doing it wrong.” Jan insisted, bustling over to join her at the sink, or as much as she could given how much space her swollen belly took up. 

Amy bit down on her lower lip, taking a deep breath through her nose. There was no wrong way to peel potatoes. As long as the skin came off, it was fine. “I’ve got it, Jan. You go on and rest in the living room.”

“Who has time for rest these days,” Jan scoffed, reaching over Amy to scrub her hands. “Zoe, do you have an extra peeler?”

“Second drawer from your left.” With that, Zoe left the two of them to the kitchen to greet her son and other grandson. And probably to get away from Janice.

Trying not to clench her teeth, Amy ignored the way her sister-in-law set herself up to take over the task of the sweet potatoes, going about her business and taking over the kitchen. “You know, Amelia, I was thinking we could try something different with the yams this year-”

“I always make the sweet potatoes,” Amy interrupted, flicking a piece of the peel into the trash. 

“I know. And there’s nothing wrong with the way you make them. I’m only suggesting that we try something new. I mean, your recipe calls for a bit too much sugar, in my opinion, and I’m just not sure I want my children eating that. I mean, I’ve been extremely conscious about what Cody and Meaghan are eating now, what with child obesity on the rise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And with Cody at that age where all he wants is sugar, I feel that it’s best to keep him from it as much as possible. If he doesn’t get a taste for it, then he won’t want it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll substitute some of the sugar with applesauce.”

“And maybe leave off the marshmallows. I mean, are they really necessary?”

“That’s the way we’ve always made it, so yes. Yes, they are necessary.”

“Well, sometimes things change, don’t they, Amelia?”

There it was. Amy paused, her potato half-peeled and grip tight on the metal instrument. An interesting way to bring it up, but she could hear it in Jan’s voice.

She resumed peeling with even strokes. “I suppose they do, Janice, but my sweet potatoes aren’t going to be changing anytime soon.”

“Alright, alright. I won’t pester you about them any further. I know you’ve been through a lot this past year, so I won’t add any unnecessary stress to your plate by nitpicking about dinner.” Janice was more efficient at peeling and Amy couldn’t help hating her a little for it. “Though, honestly, most of your stresses this year were unnecessary and could have been avoided-”

“Jan-”

“-if you’d just have worked things out with Mort. I mean, really Amy. You were the last person I imagined throwing away eight years of marriage just like that.” Jan shook her head, her short, brown bob bouncing as she did so. “That’s not even counting the six years you were together before that. Over a decade together and you couldn’t talk it out with him?”

No. No, because he wouldn’t listen. They could talk all day, but he wouldn’t hear a single word she’d say. Not in the way that mattered. Still, she said nothing, rinsing her last potato before cutting them up.

Her silence did nothing to dissuade Jan. “Marriage is a commitment, it takes work. Not everything can be romance and flower petals and star-gazing. True love is tested in how you handle hardships. Do you think Joe and I would still be together if we didn’t talk things out from time to time? Of course not. But we know how to communicate. We know how to compromise.

“Not to mention there are always the children to think of. I suppose it’s easier for you since you only have one, but think of Wirt. How is taking his father away from him going to do him any good? You of all people know what it’s like to lose a father, so forgive me if it seems like I’m prying, but you can see my point can’t you? I mean, it just doesn’t seem right. It’s not as if Mort abused you or Wirt. He was a good man. Successful man. He didn’t even drink the way your father did-”

“Don’t talk about my father as if you knew him.” Amelia slammed the knife into the cutting board, glaring at Jan when the other woman jumped. “You didn’t know him. And you didn’t know the details of my marriage. Why I left my husband is my business and if I could do it over, I’d do the same damn thing.”

Jan stared at her over the frames of her glasses, shock lingering on her expression for a good moment. Silence reigned, even the television in the other room seemed to have been turned down, leaving Amy with only the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. Her hand still clenched tightly around the handle of the knife, vibrations from the impact rippling through her arm. 

“Hey… everything okay in here?”

Joe Jr. stepped into the kitchen behind them, his gaze flickering between his wife and sister. Jan relaxed, her face becoming neutral while Amy flicked her hair over her shoulder and let go of the knife. She grabbed the cutting board and dumped the potatoes into a large pot to cover with water. 

“Everything’s peachy,” she snapped, then slammed the pot on the stove and turned up the heat. She grabbed the cornbread concoction from the stove and dumped it into the sink basin, pushing it all down the drain with a wooden spoon before tossing the utensil aside. “Let me know when the sweet potatoes have boiled.”

With that she brushed past them both, leaving the kitchen in favor of the dining room. She grabbed the china from her mother’s cabinet and began setting the table. It didn’t matter that it was still two hours until dinner. She was setting the freaking table. 

When all the plates were placed, she set to work on folding the cloth napkins her mother always liked to use. She heard someone come into the room and knew immediately that it was Joe Jr. Her brother was as quiet as their mother, but half as judgmental. She didn’t feel his stare boring into the back of her neck as she would have if it was Zoe Kallis behind her. 

It didn’t mean that it didn’t irk her though.

“ _What_ , Joe?” 

“Jan says she’s sorry. She knows she overstepped,” he told her quietly.

“Hallelujah. Miracles do happen.” Amy snorted, brusquely folding the next napkin as she refused to look at him. “Right. Yeah. Well, apology not accepted until she can get over herself and say it to my face.”

“She will. We both just decided that there was less of a chance that you’d throw a serving dish at me. Plus I wanted to see how you were doing. Haven’t really seen you since Mother’s Day.” There was a pause as she made her way around the table. “How are you doing?”

“How do you _think_ I’m doing, Joe?”

“I honestly don’t know what to think, Amy,” he sighed, sounding frustrated. “You’re giving all these mixed signals. Did you want the divorce or didn’t you?”

“Oh my god.” She threw the half-folded napkin onto the table and spun to face him. “No, Joe. Of course I didn’t _want_ a divorce. That wasn’t part of my ten-year plan. But I didn’t just wake up with a whim one day and decide, ‘oh, yes, today is the day I’ll divorce my husband.’”

“You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

“Then don’t ask stupid questions!” Amy glared at him and he scowled back. “I didn’t want it to have to come to that, but it did. Like I told your busy-body wife, if I had the chance to do it over, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Joe Jr. slumped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Okay, I can accept that. We can all accept that, Amy, what we’re confused about is that we didn’t even know anything was wrong. Your divorce came out of nowhere. Nobody knows why, except maybe Drew since he stayed with you all summer.”

“Drew doesn’t know why. I didn’t tell him.” Amy turned and resumed refolding the napkin she’d thrown. 

Her oldest little brother let her finish and get the nice silver out of the cabinet drawer before continuing. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she scoffed. “You know Mort would never hurt me. He loved me, that wasn’t the issue.”

Silence stuffed the air between them, heavy as they both heard the words she didn’t say. “Did he hurt Wirt?”

It took a minute, her hands trembling as she laid each fork one by one. “I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper. 

“Amy-”

“I’ve thought about it, over and over, and I’ve gone back over everything, everything I noticed between them - the way Wirt flinched when he raised his voice, the way he’d shrink in on himself so there’d be less of him to _hit_ -” She cut herself off, covering her mouth with her hand as she dropped the forks to grip the back of a chair and she lifted her head to look at him. “I don’t remember inexplicable bruises. There were no broken bones, no cuts, but I wasn’t looking for them so… I just don’t _know_ , Jojo. That’s why I made him leave. How could I stay married to a man if I couldn’t honestly say that he would never hurt my child?”

“Have you asked Wirt?” Joe Jr. broached hesitantly.

Amy sniffed and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. “He won’t say anything. He doesn’t want to get ‘Dad’ in trouble.”

“Oh my god.” Joe rubbed his hand over his face, skewing his glasses. “You do know how that sounds, right?”

“I absolutely know how that sounds. That’s why I divorced him.” Amy shot him an unimpressed look. “I only caught him once and it… it was more like a harsh grab. Like he didn’t know his grip would hurt Wirt, but… but I wasn’t about to let it happen again. My son was in tears, Joe. His wrist was swollen, he- I was done. That was all I needed to be done. I don’t know if that was the first time, but I made damn sure that it was the last.”

“I’m sorry, Amy. I didn’t know.” Joe looked properly abashed.

With a sigh, she shook her head. “I didn’t want you to know. I still don’t want anyone to know. Don’t go spreading this around. Don’t tell Drew or Jan or Mom-”

“I get it. Okay. Your secret’s safe with me.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Amy picked up the forks again and finished laying them.

“You loved him.”

“Yeah. ‘Loved.’ Past tense.” She placed her hands at the small of her back and looked over the dining room table. “Our love was fading anyway, Jojo. The way he treated Wirt just… it was too much. I couldn’t love someone like that. I couldn’t… I don’t-”

Biting down on her lower lip, Amy began to tremble as she covered her mouth. She didn’t love him, absolutely not, but at one point she had. At one point they’d stood in this very dining room, fingers intertwined whenever they could spare a moment from setting the table and doing as her mother asked of them. At one point she’d looked at him and saw her entire world and he his. 

Less than a year ago she’d had a husband who claimed he’d do anything for her. Except love their son. Her new world. The world she’d wanted so badly to share with Mort. 

Even though she had Wirt, she’d never felt more alone in her entire life. 

“I don’t love him,” she repeated, hugging herself as her voice cracked. “But god, do I miss him, Jojo.”

Her younger brother’s arms engulfed her in a tight embrace as he pulled her to his chest and she broke. She muffled her tears and sniffles against his shoulder, clinging to the support her offered her, the support she knew he and Drew would be willing to provide when they could and wished that it was enough to get her through this. She knew it wasn’t, but she wished anyway. Maybe she’d steal the wishbone at dinner, god knew she needed a good, solid wish to come true. Her son was miserable, she was miserable, and she was sick of it. She made the right decision and she was ready to start feeling like that was true.

“I’m so tired, Joe,” she sobbed. “I’m just so tired.”

“I know, Amy. I know,” he hushed, saying no more than what was necessary to soothe her.

Neither of them noticed Wirt watching from the doorway. 

Silently, the boy slipped back into the hallway and past the family in the living room that hadn’t even noticed he’d been gone. He tugged Secret Bear into his arms and hugged her close as he ducked out of the room and out of the house. The November air was chilly without a coat, Wirt only wearing a sweater, but he sat down on the porch without a word. He pet the back of his bear’s head, hiding her face against his shoulder.

“It’ll be okay,” Wirt whispered to her. “It’ll be okay. Maybe we can fix this. We can fix this, Secret Bear. We can do anything if we set our mind to it. You’ll see.”


End file.
